Retribution
by True.th
Summary: The continuation of Leroux's novel, Retribution recounts the story of Comtesse Rosalie de Chagny and her obsession in unraveling the untangible mysteries surrounding her husband's death. What the Lady uncovers is more than she possibly imagined.
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** Ok. I've brought the story back. I'm cleaning it up, so I hope to catch all those pesky little typos. I apologize for hastily removing the story, but I felt I had good reason, as some of you know. In this rendition, I will take great care with certain parts; I know some of you have a strong objection to super sex-god Erik. Thankfully, there's not too many of those chapter to work around, and I will find a way to satisfy both sides of said party._

_Since the story is completed, I should have frequent updates. _

_Thank you, to all who have inquired into this story during its absence. Your queries and care is what has made me reconsider and review this story. I promise it's here to stay._

_ EA_

Retribution

Prologue

The sun shone brightly over the freshly dug grave. Only moments ago, a massive crowd bid their final respects to one of the most illustrious figures in all of France, the Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny.

His widow stood by the grave, too numb for tears, her heart beyond the point of suffering -- a part of her buried alongside her husband. They had been married but a year, but she had loved him very well.

Rosalie de Chagny lived a waking nightmare. She recollected the last time she saw her husband alive. He had been in a frenzied state, for his younger brother Raoul had supposedly taken flight with Christine Daae to elope. Philippe opposed the match, and tried to prevent it from being. He never returned.

The following day she received word from Le Commissaire himself. They found Philippe's body lying near a river, the cause of his death asphyxiation. Rumors and suspicions began to circulate, some started by the French authorities -- the most believable one: the brothers sparring over Christine Daae. While many debated the issue, the facts stood. The elder was dead and the younger took flight to the North with his beloved.

Rosalie knew the rumors were false. She felt Raoul's absence at the funeral keenly, it was a noticeable thing and added to the gossip, but she also knew Raoul incapable of such malice. The younger de Chagny was very much like the elder, and both had good and generous hearts. The fabricated explanation was by far the most ridiculous the authorities could give, and the Comtesse resented the time they wasted writing such horrid reports instead of searching for the real killer, who remained at large.

But that Raoul knew the identity of the murderer, Rosalie had no doubt of, for the young lad did not make any effort to clear his name, and when last seen, he had nothing but a haunted, tortured look. When the time was right she would question him, if he could ever be found. Raoul had gone deep into hiding with his young bride.

The moment the pain would cease, if such pain could ever cease, she would look into the matter. The idea of Philippe's demise, such a tragic end for such a noble man, enraged her. The first opportunity she had, she would ardently seek out justice - for justice had abandoned them all.

Rosalie was the last to leave the site, and only did when entreated by one of her sister-in-laws, but before leaving the hallowed spot she knelt on the ground and spoke a whispered promise.

"My love, I will not give up until I have found your murderer. I swear it on my very life."

She sealed her oath with a kiss to the earth.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

That night a shadowy figure stole over the graveyard, though his visit was not for reminiscing. The nightly haunts were what one would expect from a ghost. Most everyone believed him dead, except for a handful who swore his existence to secrecy, and _they_ would all rather forget that such a person lived.

He paused over the new grave, instantly recognizing the name carved onto the cold slate. He did not mourn for the man whose life had ended at his very hands. Instead, he mourned for himself, wishing he could trade places with the dead. This dead man had been loved and cared for, no one thought of _him_, alive as he was, except to wish he had never been born. He continued his walk cursing every breath he took, every steady beat of his strong, cold heart. It seemed death was not destined for him, yet, though he eagerly sought it to end the empty void and loneliness that consumed him.


	2. Part I:The Pains of the Past

Part 1 The Pains of the Past, The Hope of the Future

Springtime returned to France, signs of rebirth evident at all turns. Newly formed buds sprouted on the cherry blossom trees, lilies grew; fresh grass colored and brightened a seemingly dead earth.

In the backdrop of nature's perfect beauty was the Comte's splendid mansion. The Victorian manor stood proudly as it always had, though in recent months did not look quite as grand. It began to show signs of age and disrepair, not too unlike its owner who lay in her bed, debating, as she did every day, whether to rise.

Rosalie was twenty-eight years of age, older than most women recently wed, but only because she had chosen to wait. She had had no shortage of suitors vying for her hand, blessed as she was with beauty. Men found it difficult to resist her smooth, creamy white skin, soft as a newborn babe's, her large violet eyes framed by exceptionally long lashes, and rosy lips that formed into a delicious smile. But at that moment, there was no sign of the goddess who made men swoon with a single look; suffering began to take its toll. Dark circles formed under her lovely eyes, her long dark ringlets drooped carelessly about her head and she took little trouble in priming herself. Her immediate circle of friends and family were concerned for her, but none could do anything to help.

So many mornings passed over the house, quiet and empty. There were no young voices to fill the lavish home. Rosalie and Philippe had not had children. He could not produce an heir for he had been impotent. The news devastated them, but in seeking an alternative, the topic of adoption surfaced and took root. Hope renewed and joy returned. They were to have looked into the process that very summer. Now there would be none of it, all of their dreams gone in an instant by a nameless, faceless deviant. The house would remain in its death-like hush, save the whispered voices of the servants, who tried desperately to assist the grief-stricken Comtesse.

"_Bonjour, Madame_," Miriette the young housekeeper said entering the large room, drawing the curtain to let in some sunlight.

"_Bonjour, Miriette_," replied Rosalie, with an expression that showed there was nothing at all good about the day.

"Shall I bring you your breakfast, Madame?" Miriette asked pleasantly.

Like an automaton, Rosalie began the habitual nodding motion of her head, but the soft sound of rustling leaves caught her ears, breaking her from the curse of unfeeling depression. Gazing out of her arched windows, she beheld pink blossoms forming on the tree, and heard the sweet chirping of the birds. She rubbed her eyes, in a state of confusion, her mind awakening.

"What day is it?" she asked.

"_C'est jeudi, Madame_."

"The date. What is the date?" Her voice grew agitated.

"The fourteenth of April, but why do you ask?" Miriette asked nervously. As of late her mistress was prone to sudden anxiety attacks. She prepared herself in case she needed to fetch the medications.

"Are you saying it is spring?" Rosalie asked in disbelief.

"_Oui, Madame_."

"When did that happen?" Rosalie asked herself softly. Shaking her head she said, "I've spent the past five months in bed?"

Miriette did not know how the answer the question. Her mistress had not really been bed-ridden for five months; rather, she had walked around the house aimlessly, in a sleep-like state, her mind consumed with her own thoughts. When visitors came to call she would sit with them, but no one could succeed in maintaining a steady flow of conversation. She would ignore statements and leave her own unfinished. Eventually, the visitors ceased their charitable visits, except for Monsieur Eustache Rousseau, a good friend of the Comte's who had helped the young widow tremendously during her ordeal.

Rosalie walked to the window and opened it wider. A gentle wind blew in, chilly against her warm skin, but welcoming nonetheless. She inhaled the fresh air around her. For the first time in months, she felt a rekindling of strength and a sudden drive. It was as if her husband's spirit, carried in the soft rustle of the breeze, reminded her of her oath. Not that she had forgotten it. Indeed, it was all she thought of day and night. However, her lack of actions thus far filled her with guilt. She had been weak, she had been aimless, but now, suddenly, inexplicably, she was ready.

"Madame, what can I do for you? Shall I fetch you something?" Miriette asked watching her mistress with great concern.

"Yes. I need to find the Vicomte," Rosalie said with grim resolution.

Miriette gasped. "Madame, it is impossible to find him. No one knows where he is, except that he traveled North by train."

"He must be found. It is necessary he be found. Do you understand that Miriette?"

"But, Madame-,"

"Damn it, Miriette, people do not disappear off the face of the earth! I don't care how it's done, but we will find him! I will find him!" Rosalie's eyes flared, exhibiting a brief return of the woman she used to be. Turning back to the window she added, "He can help me."

Miriette replied, "Oui, Madame," and curtsied, wondering where to even begin.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

A chateau rested on the very border of France, alone on a hill, its location hidden past rivers, rocks, and forests. It was lonely and forgotten. At a quick glance, one would have thought it abandoned.

Inside told different story. Cherry wood floors and oak banisters, all perfectly waxed and polished twinkled with merriment. Cheery draperies hung over the windows, and a warm fire glowed in the hearth. The furnishings were welcoming, peaceful, and inviting for love reigned inside the home. It was a humble but happy place. A Vicomte and his wife could afford to live in a more fashionable manner, but the couple refused, wanting nothing more than peace and quiet, happy in the knowledge that they were safe and together.

The Vicomtess de Chagny stared at herself in the mirror. She was four months pregnant -- only beginning to show. No baby could be more welcomed as the one inside Christine's belly, and as she placed her hand over her belly, she thanked God once more for His providence and safekeeping. The expectation of motherhood filled her with an excitement like none other, but it had come with a price.

A memory halted Christine's lovely visions. Her happy thoughts chased away by another whose presence continually haunted her.

It had been about half a year, but alas, seemed half a lifetime, that Christine and Raoul had run away to start their new life together in silence, in seclusion, away from the dark memories, away from the past.

Away from him.

Even at that moment Christine's hands shook as she recalled the simple gold band tucked away in a hidden envelope in her dresser.

That day loomed on her, the day she would have to return to face him, for she had promised she _would_ return.

It kept her awake sometimes, her promise, as did his voice, that magnificent, sinister voice that she could hear at her very ears. It filled her head.

"…_and the grasshopper, I tell you, jumps jolly high!"_

"_Erik, do you swear to me that the scorpion is the one to turn?"_

"_Yes, to hop at our wedding!"_

"_Ah, you see! You said to hop...Erik!"_

"_Enough!"_

Dreadful memories. Those terrifying moments she heard Raoul crying out her name to save him when he had come to save her, only to find himself ensnared in the devil's lair.

But he was not the devil. He was nothing of the man she had thought him. He had spared Raoul and set her free when he could have killed them all. He had only wanted to be loved for himself, and because he could not it drove him to madness. But he had learned compassion and to love selflessly, though he was not loved in return.

Christine pitied the unhappy man, and though filled with gratitude she could do no more but accept the ring and promise to return after his death.

The ring sat quietly, still and waiting, an eerie reminder of the not-too distant past. Christine could not enjoy her future without burying the long-ago, and yet that refused to die.

The Vicomtesse shut her eyes and went to look for her husband. He knew how to cheer her. He knew how to make her feel safe and happy.

Excerpt from Leroux Phantom of the Opera pgs. 322,323


	3. Part 2: The Friend and WouldBe Lover

Part 2

Monsieur Eustache Rousseau alighted from his coach and approached the great house. He came to call on the Comtesse on the pretext of inquiring after her health for he had received word from one of the servants that something troubled her, and suggested he visit in an attempt to bring cheer.

Eustache was a French nobleman, well bred and military trained. He and Philippe had served together in the navy in their youth, a fact that procured their steadfast friendship. Philippe had confided more in Eustache than in his own brother, the two men being closer in age. Upon hearing the news of his friend's death, Eustache had raced to the mansion to see in what manner he could best serve, though nothing come be done; feeling indebted to some service, he paid his respects continually by looking after the Comte's widow, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to do so selflessly, for Eustache was in love.

Eustache had known Rosalie for several years. He had noticed her one night at a cousin's ball. Unfortunately for him, so had every other male in the room, Philippe included. Both men made it their affair to woo the lovely young woman, dressed so becomingly in her crème colored gown. Philippe, being the more outgoing of the two, swiftly moved in for conversation and jovialities; in a matter of minutes, he procured the fair Lady's good esteem; Eustache was heart-broken but suffered in silence, his loyalty to his friend stronger than any sentiment held for a woman. He rejoiced when they wed, and as a consolation indulged in frequenting the couple's home, if only to be able to gaze upon Rosalie from time to time.

Eustache flattered himself that out of the two men, he knew Rosalie better. Through his conversations with her, he discovered she was more than a beauty; she was an intellectual, gifted with unusual wit. She had the mind of a man -- quick and eager, ready to offer her opinion during the debates that took place at the dining room table. Eustache knew she was an avid reader. Her hunger for the written word led her to sneak into her husband's library and devour books on politics, medicine, and law. She had a fascination for other cultures and religions as well, though her husband advised her to keep her knowledge a private matter.

Rosalie exemplified patience. Indeed, Eustache had seen that patience tried whenever Philippe dismissed a statement or an idea she shared. The latter had never taken her seriously. Philippe had not been a severe husband; he merely believed women were weaker in every aspect and facet of life. He had not esteemed his wife at her full capacity, not in the manner Eustache did.

Had he found her to be unhappy, Eustache would have given a word of advice to his friend, for he believed he knew him well enough to offer counsel without offense, but it seemed such was not the case. Rosalie loved in earnest, and she understood that her husband acted to procure her best interest by enforcing the rules and restrictions of societal norms. Her intelligence would seldom be accepted anywhere even amongst her female peers. She was neither the sufficient visionary nor pioneer to alter those norms. She remained content with her situation and station in life. If she happened to be intellectually superior to her husband, it did not bother her. She fed her mental inquiries by debating with herself, and on occasion with Eustache, when her husband was out of earshot.

After her husband's death, Eustache offered Rosalie every type of assistance possible. He had taken care of the funeral arrangements, and spoken to the lawyers in regards to Philippe's will, inheritance, distribution of property, and such. Rosalie was eternally grateful to Eustache, even if she could not tell him.

Eustache entered the drawing room where he found Rosalie gazing ahead of her, the scowl on her face indicating her tumultuous contemplation. In her hand was a letter. The gentleman crossed the room and took a seat across from her, for she had not stood when he was announced. She was in one of her fits, the faded tearstains still visible to his acute eye. What he would give to strain her close to him and comfort her, but he had to settle for a polite inquiry.

"Dear Comtesse, is everything all right?"

Rosalie turned her eyes towards Eustache showing no signs of recognition. Her gaze returned to her unseen visions. They sat in silence for several minutes, and Eustache made a second attempt to draw her out.

"I see you have a letter, Madame. Did you receive some news?"

His reference to the note awakened Rosalie. Her face twisted into a terrible grimace and she flung the paper into his lap. She then stood and turned to the fireplace.

"What do you make of such selfishness?" she asked bitterly.

Eustache unfolded the crumpled paper and read.

_Dear Comtesse,_

_I have received word you are trying to reach me. I know what this is about dear sister, and though my heart grieves with yours, I can do no more about the fate God has assigned for Philippe. Accept what has happened and move on._

_Rosalie, I entreat you to look no further into the matter. Only death and destruction wait in that corner. I say no more. I have a wife to care after, and she is in delicate condition. Please do not bother me again on the subject._

_Your brother,_

_Raoul_

"How did this arrive?" Eustache asked, turning the paper over.

"It came by private messenger," Rosalie replied, a hard laugh escaping from her lips. "He does not even want me to know where he lives. Could you have ever imagined this possible: a naval officer who is a coward?"

"I am confused. What is this about? What is the nature of this letter?"

Rosalie paced the room impatiently, her dark dress rustling about behind her. "I have made inquiries as to where my dear brother Raoul has been hiding. I need to speak to him in regards to my husband's death."

"Perhaps he is not ready to discuss it?" Eutache suggested, but that did not seem right.

"He will never be ready. To him the matter is dead alongside Philippe! Why is he hiding? I suppose that is the wrong question. The right question would be what devil is he hiding from?"

Eustache was accustomed to Rosalie's passionate speeches, and pardoned her manner of expression. He simply answered, "I am not following."

"Ah!" Rosalie cried out in frustration. "Do you not see?" she pulled the letter out of his hands and read from it. "'Look no further into the matter. Death and destruction wait.' It is clear he knows something."

"Comtesse, he is protecting you."

"From _what_!" she yelled so ferociously the walls shook.

Eustache stood. He reached for her hand and gently led her to a chair. "You are overly-excited. Perhaps if I were to get you a drink?"

"Can no one understand that I miss my husband?" she cried, fresh tears forming in her eyes. The sight broke Eustache's heart in two.

"Everyone understands that. It is only natural that you should miss him. It is part of the grieving process." Eustache managed to keep his voice controlled and soothing as he stood in front of Rosalie. If only he could bend before her, share the promise of a better future. But such a moment was not the time for such revelations.

"Then why will no one help me?"

"How? How are you being denied help?"

Rosaline met Eustache's gaze and looking deep inside him said, "I want my husband's killer brought to justice. I want it more than anything."

Eustache sighed. "They have investigated-" he began. She cut him off.

"Investigated? You call that three-person inquiry an investigation? It seems to me they had the case solved before they formed their queries. From my understanding they spoke to the Vicomte, an older woman who works at the Opera House, and some Persian, whose testimony was completely discounted on no greater regard that he was not a fair-skinned European."

"That is an unjust statement, Comtesse. He was treated well, but his story was a complete farce."

"What was it about? I am not acquainted with his testimonial," Rosalie asked, her curiosity heightened.

"The man had a fantastical story about a masked lunatic living seven stories beneath the Opera House," and Eustache continued from there, acquainting her with the ongoings that had plagued the house for years.

Rosalie's eyes sparkled with interest as she intently held on to his every word. After he had finished she said, "That is not so very far-fetched. I have read into the building's construction. There has yet to be a modern edifice to parallel its design. It is quite possible that someone would take residence beneath it."

Eustache snickered. "Does that mean you also believe in the existence of Quasimodo?" he asked teasingly in an effort to ease her mind, but found it only angered her.

"Do not taunt. It does not become you. I tolerated that from Philippe, but I will not accept it from you."

Eustache had stood the second she had, instantly regretting his words. "Forgive me, Madame. Forgive me."

Rosalie sighed, turning away. She had always been a passionate person, but since her husband's death, she had become angry and short-tempered. Scowls and frowns were her trademark expressions. She wanted to let go of the hurt she carried, but she knew she could not until she completed her task.

"Eustache," she said, breaching etiquette in addressing him by his first name, "perhaps you can help," she said pleadingly.

Eustache feared what her petition would be but his love for her made him succumb.

"I am at your service. Ask what you will. I will do my best to accommodate."

"Take me to the opera house," she said, swiftly and decidedly. "This very instant if possible."

Eustache was sorry, very sorry he had brought up the legend of the Opera ghost. He felt he had implanted a crazy notion in her head, which she would not easily let go. His first instinct was to refuse. He could not let her go there and barrage the staff with her questions. He did not think of their inconvenience, rather of her reputation. Everyone would assume she had gone insane.

He admitted that there was some basis for the rumors -- undoubtedly started by some practical jokester -- though who would refer to the falling of a two-ton chandelier a practical joke? If she heard of the other events that followed, they would magnify her new obsession, and she would point fingers at the first odd character, not resting until the person was behind bars.

Moreover, if by some chance there was a deranged murderer roaming the Opera House, he could not allow her to go after him. It was to place her life in grave danger. There was some need for concern, or de Chagny would not have written such a letter. Eustache needed to dissuade her of her idea.

"Comtesse," he said gently, "it would be a futile attempt to go to the Opera to inquire. What I have told you is a story of a man from a foreign land. They entertain each other daily with these kinds of fables."

"Perhaps I should speak with him, and allow him to entertain me some more," she said bitterly.

"I regret to inform you he has returned to his native soil," Eustache said, not knowing if that was certain, but as she knew even less about it, she took him at his word. He would not have her run around Paris chasing after a storyteller.

Rosalie recommenced her pace about the room. She stopped at a window and looked outside. She wondered how people could appear and disappear with such ease. She too, longed to vanish from the Earth and take flight with the spirits, but unlike others, she would fulfill her obligations. Turning from the window, she spoke with great resolution:

"It is obvious Philippe's memory means very little to many. Raoul believes he has other obligations to tend to, but you, what is your excuse?" she asked accusingly. Before he could give an answer, she continued. "It does not matter. My mind is set. Eustache, you will take me to the opera house or I will go alone. Either way, I am going."

Eustache saw in her eyes that she did not jest, and so he agreed that the next day they would go to the opera house in pursuit of man, myth, or phantom.


	4. Part 3 Sec 1: The Return of the Ghost

Part 3 The Return of the Ghost

A lone figure stood on the rooftops, surveying the large gathering of guests entering the Opera House. Erik amused himself watching the rich fools in their vain pursuits of pleasure. The gentry, men in lacy ruffled shirts, top hats and walking canes, escorted bejeweled, feather-and-silk adorned ladies. Ringing laughter, and enthusiastic cries, lifted from the throats of the crowd, reaching Erik's ears. He knew by their jovial tones the wealthy imbeciles had forgotten all that had occurred during the last opera, _Faust_. They believed the rumors that the demons that had plagued that show were exorcised, and had convinced themselves this new opera, _Cosi fan tutte_, would be void of cracking voices, disappearing divas, and fatal mishaps.

It had been some time since Erik had stood perched atop the Opera House. After setting Christine free, he had shut himself away in the dreary darkness, ready to submit to death. He swore, as he admitted to Nadir that one night in the Persian's apartment, that he was, "dying of love." Yet, death eluded him, though he neither ate nor drank for some time. Eventually, the pain in his heart for his lost love subsided to an empty dullness, and Erik found the will to continue his pathetic existence.

He had sat in his apartment, the weeks passing by, feeling nothing but the cold that surrounded him while the world above reveled in their merry-making. But after some time, his curiosity for said world reawakened, daring him to stir about again. Upon emerging from his confinement and walking through the House, he heard relieved voices exulting a bit too loudly over the Opera Ghost's departure. Some went too far in their mockeries, declaring themselves, "The Phantom of the Opera."

The triumphant tones angered him, and the dull ache sitting in his soul replaced with intense hatred. Hatred felt ten-fold since Christine's abandonment. Why should the world rejoice when he felt nothing but misery? At that moment, the ire re-entered his soul. He vowed to deal with the premature celebrations at his expense.

Erik decided to return to his former, devilish ways, with nothing to lose and seemingly nothing to gain, save the pride of striking fear in the hearts of man. After viewing the tiresome upper class for several more minutes, he entered the building. His first stop was to return to box five and watch the opera from his hidden seat while he masterminded.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o

Rosalie gazed out from her coach at the massive building. It was a remarkable sight. She had passed by it often enough in her walks through the city, but she had yet to go inside. Though Philippe had pleasured himself in attending past performances she had never had the desire to see one, preferring the company of honest books to the glamorous illusions created by dramatic acting.

The facts of the Opera Garnier jumped into her mind. She knew it to be eleven thousand square meters, and seating approximately two thousand guests. She had heard many rave of its unparallel interior design of velvet, and its lavish statuary of nymphs and cherubs. The painted ceiling boasted intricate details. She was aware of its crowning glory, the magnificent chandelier. Indeed, it had made headlines: _Two Hundred Kilos on the Head of a Concierge_. Philippe said it was an accident; it had been treated as such by the authorities. That she could end those accidents.

Eustache attempted to help Rosalie out of the carriage, but when he leaned over with outstretched arm, discovered she had already jumped out and walked with a determined stride into the Opera House. Eustache could barely keep up with her. He oftentimes wondered if Philippe had had any idea of the person that lay beneath the delicate façade of his wife's beauty. This woman was no-nonsense and all charge. She had arranged everything for this outing. She had purchased the tickets and readied her coach to fetch him. He half expected her to be dressed in man's trousers, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found her robed in her dark silk dress.

"This production is said to be quite entertaining," Eustache commented, hoping to slow her pace.

Rosalie ignored him. They could have watched an animal show for all she cared. The Opera was not her main priority, and to have to sit through two and a half hours of frivolity was to tax her patience greatly.

At Rosalie's request, they sat in the ill-fated box five. Eustache was not a man easily frightened, but he sensed something there that unnerved him. It was the feeling of another person present, though no one else was in view. However, he did not comment on his sensations. It would be what Rosalie expected to hear, and he brushed the sentiment aside blaming his nervousness on the thrill of the hunt, though there was very little to thrill him.

Rosalie saw nothing save the managers who sat opposite her, Monsieur Firmin Richard and Monsieur Armand Moncharmin. She caught both of their eyes, and they smiled stupidly at her, flattered to be watched so intently by such a lovely young woman. From their distance, they could not tell that she was dressed in widow's attire.

Rosalie refrained from rolling her eyes heavenward in disgust, and instead forced herself to return the smile. She would do whatever she needed to help her cause.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Erik did not start in finding the handsome couple seated in his private box, but he was exceedingly annoyed. He glanced at the managers who were busy smirking and making love to the woman across from them. _How quickly the past is forgotten_, he mused to himself. _I will need to remind them_. He then turned his gaze back on the fashionable pair wondering how to divulge his presence. As he pondered, he bore a hard gaze at the woman's face, immediately noticing its striking beauty. However, it was not her pristine physiognomy that drew him, rather the sadness in her eyes. He noticed the half-netted veil she had pulled back. His gaze drank in the rest of her attire, which was a simple, yet elegant black dress. The lady was in mourning, and yet how odd to find her at the Opera. Erik sneered. A woman whose husband could not have been long deceased now enjoyed society in the presence of another man. Yet another confirmation of how fickle the human race was. Erik shook his head, the supposition entering him that perhaps Christine had done him a favor by choosing Raoul. If this one woman exemplified matrimonial loyalty, then he was better off in his singleness. Thinking of his beloved rattled him for an instant, but no more than that. Erik had learned to counter his vulnerability by filling himself with contempt.

Ignoring the couple an impossibility, he decided to leave a lasting impression on them before exiting, and speaking lowly but clearly said, "Madame, do you honor your husband's memory by sullying his bed?"

The effect of his words was immediate. Rosalie's cheeks turned scarlet, her eyes widened, and she gripped the arm of her chair. Though part of her had expected gossipers to sensationalize her sudden outing, she had not expected to hear the comments so quickly and first-hand. However, she did not turn, nor cry out, nor flee. Erik admired her grace. The gentleman was another story. His face reddened as well, but he stood ready to meet the accuser and defend the Lady's honor. Unfortunately for Eustache, there was no one to be met with.

Rosalie burned with curiosity as to who would dare be so bold in their assertions. The male voice was so hate-filled, so mocking, she desperately wanted to turn with Eustache and demand the person show himself, but her pride prevented any such action. She would not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she added fuel to the fire. She reached for Eustache, sat him down, and responded loudly for the mocker's entertainment:

"Darling, do not let jealous words trouble you. After all, this is our night. Philippe would be happy for us."

Eustache did as bid, shocked into submission by her wickedness, though he wished in his heart it were true. His conscience convicted him of covetousness, and he immediately prayed for forgiveness.

Erik stood still at the name of the dead husband, puzzling as to why it struck a cord within him. After several minutes, he remembered the name on the tombstone. _Philippe, the Comte de Chagny?_ He questioned. The knowledge was more reason for him to turn away in disgust, for he loathed every member of the de Chagny lineage. He should have taken satisfaction that the man's widow cared so little for him, but Erik soon realized something was amiss. He observed that the pair sat far apart from each other. He saw the woman continually clutch the gold band on her left hand and close her eyes from time to time, a sigh escaping her. Erik knew those heaves well, for he had emanated similar ones once upon a time on an evening rooftop. This woman was not there for entertainment, for not once did she view the Opera, instead she too, glanced urgently at the managers. Erik came to realize the Lady played a farce. The man who sat next to her was not her lover at all. She had another motive for being there that night, and Erik believed himself the connection.

He would have to watch the woman's steps carefully.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

The instant the final bow was taken, Rosalie tugged at Eustache's sleeve.

"Come, monsieur. We must hurry!"

"Stay your step a moment, Comtesse. There is no rush. These men will go downstairs smiling and smirking as they light their cigars and drink from their brandies, congratulating themselves on the success of their performance, not that they did much to make it happen."

"They distribute the notes. That is all the motivation required," she answered wryly, gazing intently at the managers for the hundredth time that evening.

Eustache smiled. "Spoken like a man," he joked, managing to elicit a smile from the fair Rosalie. Growing serious he added, "I am sorry for what transpired here."

Rosalie understood what he alluded to, and she silenced him with a shake of her head. She believed that whoever had made those hateful remarks was still nearby. Who would be so willfully malicious, she had no idea, but she wanted the person to see that the remarks meant nothing to her. After the death of Philippe, very little else mattered.

Eustache and Rosalie left the box and made their way to the managers who, as Eustache had aforementioned, were showering their rich patrons with compliments and happy wishes. It was shameless, and Rosalie struggled to maintain her composure, recalling that she was, or once had been, the wife of a Comte.

"_Bon soir, monsieurs_," she said assuming her most charming accent. "_Nous sommes désirée un moment avec vous_."

The two men instantly recognized the beautiful woman, whose loveliness magnified the plainer in view. However, they could see by her dress that she was a widow, and although they felt sorrier for their own loss than they did hers, they retained all of their charm.

"_Oui, Madame_. How may we be of service?" asked Monsieur Richard.

Drawing her arm through Eustache's for support, Rosalie spoke firmly. "We would like to ask you a few questions."

"But of course, Madame. About the performance we assume?"

"_Non_," she briskly countered. "If you would be so kind, could we please meet in private?"

The owners did not understand; the brandies dulled their senses. "Madame, whatever needs to be said, you may say here." Monsieur Richard gave an over emphatic gesture to the rather large group gathered around them. "We are amongst friends."

Rosalie snorted a quick breath through her nostrils. Arching her brow ever so slightly, she conceded to her temper. Eustache sensed what was to follow and patted her hand, hoping the blow she was about to inflict would not be too severe.

"_J'entende_," she replied, her tone and manner unwavering. "We may speak of my husband's death right here in the company of our 'good friends' if that suits you better."

Shocked silence fell amongst the group. Eustache was certain his expression mirrored that of the two managers, who were completely stunned at the Lady's lack of proper etiquette.

"Forgive us Madame," said Monsieur Moncharmin, who was the first to recover. "What did you say your name was?"

"I did not. You did not ask, but now that you have, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Madame Rosalie Giselle Comtesse de Chagny, and this is Monsieur Eustache Rosseau. He was a most esteemed friend of my beloved husband, and is of mine."

As it happened, the managers did not want to speak of dead husbands in front of so many curious onlookers, and excusing themselves from the crowd, they hastily led Rosalie and Eustache to their office. They were uncertain what type of questions the woman had, but they were certain that they would not be pleasing to hear.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Erik returned to his lair only to quit it shortly. He came to retrieve a few items that he would need for his next haunt.

The Comtesse was conducting her own, private investigation. The knowledge amused more than bothered. His original assumptions had been all wrong. This seemingly troublesome woman had dearly loved her husband, or she would not go through so much nonsense for the dead man. She wanted answers? Erik would more than graciously supply them, but he would do it in a way she would never forget.

Gathering some supplies -- rope, a knife, and a chloroformed-filled handkerchief, Erik quitted the apartment as swiftly as he entered it, making haste to fetch his guest.


	5. Part 3 sec 2

Section 2

"Forgive us Comtesse, but you startled us. You have a rather unusual manner," confessed Monsieur Moncharmin, once he had firmly shut the office door behind him.

"Yes, that is all very good, but I did not come to have my manner discussed, though it is unconventional for a woman. Perhaps we may defer that conversation for another time. Now to the point, if you will. I would like to hear about my husband's final night alive."

The men exchanged glances. "It was the night of Miss Daae's disappearance." Monsieur Richard cleared his throat, a stupid smile replacing the somber look. "By the by, we have heard that she is now the Vicomtesse de Chagny. Please send her our regards."

"Yes, I will make sure to send her your congratulations once I myself have found both her and my much beloved brother-in-law." In stating her rejoinder, Rosalie's lip curled upwards in recalling Raoul's refusal to help. "Please do not change the subject."

"Again, pardon. What would you like us to report?" asked the smaller man.

"Did you see anything? Did you converse with Philippe? Did he share any concerns he may have had that evening?"

"We will tell you as we did to the authorities. We only saw the Comte briefly, and shook hands with him before the performance. What followed afterwards remains a mystery," Monsieur Moncharmin said.

Silence filled the room; all men daring to hope rather than believe the conversation over. Eustache stood, on the verge and thanking the gentlemen, when Rosalie spoke again.

"I want to know what lies beneath the Opera House."

"Cellars," Monsieur Richard said with an exaggerated shrug.

Richard's tone annoyed her. Both men sat on the edge of their seats, a clear indication that they hoped to rise, and thus, end the conversation, but she would not give them the satisfaction.

"What of your Ghost?" Rosalie asked defiantly.

Neither Eustache nor Rosalie anticipated the reaction that followed. The two men simultaneously paled, stood, and walked about the room wringing their hands. Monsieur Richard began to run his through his hair.

"Madame, Madame, Madame, you know not what you ask," lamented Monsieur Moncharmin.

"Why would you want to raise the dead?" questioned Monsieur Richard.

"Raise the dead?" Eustache repeated, amazed at their behavior. He wondered what sudden fury had possessed the two men.

"Sh! Please monsieur, not so loud if you will," begged Monsieur Richard.

"Do the walls have ears?" Rosalie asked, her tone somewhat mocking, yet felt thrilled and terrified at once. She sensed they made headway in their queries.

"Everything has ears around here. Surely Madame, you know of the setbacks we've suffered," responded Monsieur Richard.

"Yes, I have heard a few things." Rosalie darted a quick glance at Eustache, who raised his eyebrows in turn.

"Let us say in months past we have breathed purer air. All of the nonsense that plagued us for years came to an end after Miss Daae's disappearance."

Rosalie looked genuinely confused. What were they alluding? She placed the question before them. "Are you insinuating that Christine was connected to your misfortunes?"

"Once Miss Daae departed with the Vicomte, all our troubles disappeared." Monsieur Richard folded his arms across his chest as if he uttered the greatest of facts.

"Much as a ghost would," Eustache could not help but muse aloud, but no one heard him.

"Coincidence? We think not," concluded Monsieur Moncharmin.

The conversation had certainly taken a strange turn, and no one was quite certain of what to say next. The silence announced that all inquiries were at an end. The gentlemen's bows were both graciously and eagerly given, and Eustache gently pulled the reluctant Rosalie to her feet. He began leading her out of the room, but before she reached the door, she turned to ask one final question. The managers groaned. Even Eustache let out a small sigh.

"Dear Sirs, be so good as to answer me this. Have either one of you ever been seven stories below the Opera House?"

Both Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin gave their no's quickly, but honestly. Not satisfied in the least by the interview, Rosalie thanked the gentlemen and left.

The entire conversation perplexed her. Nothing had gone as planned. She was certain the managers knew more than they had cared to share - not about Philippe's death, but about everything in general. She had left the room with more questions than answers. To return home in that manner was impossible. The answers, she believed, were nearby; she could feel it.

Rosalie decided to act. As soon as they were out of earshot, she grabbed Eustache's arm and said, "We have to go below the Opera House."

"Have you gone mad?" Eustache whispered back, somewhat fiercely. "We can't waltz down to the cellars. We would be trespassing."

"A minor legal infraction. One that would be overlooked when we catch the killer."

"Catch the killer?" he repeated in astonishment. This was exactly what he feared. "There is no killer down there! How can I persuade you to believe that?" He thought of something to distract her. "Perhaps you would like to go and meet the Persian?"

"I thought he returned to his own land," Rosalie said defiantly, crossing her arms.

"And so he has, but I would gladly find you the Persian before sauntering to a dark, rat-infested, subterranean dwelling."

Rosalie had never heard Eustache more determined. For an instant, she feared losing the battle. She tried another tactic, and debasing herself, resorted to the art of feminine manipulation.

"If not for Philippe, then do it for me," she said in her most sorrowful tone, pressing her hands to her heart.

Eustache's dark eyes studied the woman in front of him. He knew she acted the part of the distressed damsel; he had seen her do it several times before in her husband's presence. Philippe always gave in to the pouty looks and doleful expression, whereas Eustache swore to himself that no woman would influence him in such a manner, but he felt himself in her power. How could he deny the woman he loved in her most desperate hour? It was a ludicrous request, but certainly there was nothing to be afraid of. It would put an end to the ghost stories, or so he hoped.

"We will find somewhere to linger, and then stir below," he said with a reluctant sigh.

His generosity was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek that almost made everything worthwhile.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

"You have the lantern?" Rosalie asked.

"This is madness," was the answer received from Eustache.

Both stood in an isolated back hallway, ready to make their way downstairs. They had stood in the foyer for quite some time, chatting and speaking to others as if nothing were amiss. The second the crowd began to thin, Rosalie and Eustache had slipped away from the masses with the excuse that she had left something in the performance hall, but instead of going up the stairs, they had sprinted to the first dark hallway they found. Rosalie had waited quietly there, as she sent Eustache to fetch a lantern. He had returned to argue with her.

"Yes. You have said that quite a few times," Rosalie calmly stated.

"And I will continue to say so, for it is the absolute truth. Comtesse, what are we doing?" he asked in a frenzied whisper.

"I believe I asked a question before you did," Rosalie retorted, beginning to lose her patience.

Eustache sighed, quitting further argument; there was no reasoning with the woman. "Yes, here is the lantern," he said pulling it up overhead. "You are a difficult woman to please," he actually dared complain.

Rosalie smiled at Eustache's frustrated admission. "On the contrary, I am very easy to satisfy. Forgive me, my friend. I know I have been very demanding as of late, but that is not my true nature. This - this is beyond me," Rosalie confessed, slightly alarmed at her own determination. "God knows what spirit has possessed me."

"Do not speak in such a way, Madame. God is on our side; there is no demon or devil with us," Eustache rebuked. He spoke with authority, but trembled inwardly, feeling they were to descend into the fiery pits. Reason told him not to fear, that they would find nothing more than a commonplace cellar at the bottom of the Opera House, but he had heard other stories. There had been rumors that the Phantom kept a torture chamber in the dark recesses of his lair. The descriptions of people dying as the madman gleefully watched had filled Eustache with pure terror. But in the very next sentence he was told that the same man was a vampire who enjoyed draining the life force from young virgins. He had laughed at that description, but this was no laughing matter. What if they found something down there that neither one was prepared for? Eustache paused. There was still time to turn back. Rosalie's indomitable gait told him if he did not descend with her, she was apt to return alone. That was something he could not allow her to do. Drawing a breath, Eustache opened the door that led downstairs.

Rosalie and Eustache continued their light chatter in an attempt to ease their anxieties, for despite the Comtesse's bravery and persistence, she was terrified. They began their slow descent down the dark stairs, barely able to see their footing as the lantern provided a mere foot or two of visibility. Every step they took resonated in the empty corridors. How was it possible for anyone to sneak around with the thunderous echo?

There were many steps, far too many to count. Each one plunged them further into darkness and carried them away from the last bit of lights from the world above. They knew they had a long way to sojourn, although neither one knew exactly where they were headed, nor what to do once they arrived.

Finally, they reached the bottom of the steps. It appeared they had arrived at the cellar, though it was too dark to be certain. The repugnant smell of must hung thickly, surrounding them, and the corridors were cold, at least both the gentleman and lady felt a chill that reached their very bones. Rosalie reached for Eustache's hand. The kind gentleman was only to happy to oblige, holding it protectively in his own. However, after a few steps it became apparent that she was not seeking his protection, rather, she sought to protect him! Rosalie tried several times to position herself in front of Eustache, attempting to lead him through the darkness. Eustache detained her a moment to say,

"Comtesse, if we are to continue this, you must promise to stay behind me at all times. Do we understand each other?"

Rosalie nodded, but offered no audible response. She was still in front of him, and her hand reached ahead of her feeling cold and stall – a wall. Rosalie bit her lip in frustration, while Eustache sighed in relief.

"It appears we are in a commonplace cellar," Eustache announced happily, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, knowing how disappointed Rosalie felt.

"So it does," she said, admitting defeat. Her heart ached desperately. _Philippe, this cannot be right. You did not bring me down here for nothing. I know you came this way. I know you traveled down her and found death itself. Philippe, please_….she silently prayed.

They began their walk back. Rosalie felt empty and alone. She tried to clear her mind in case…in case…. Of what? A vision? A revelation? Perhaps she was mad. She continued to argue with herself, failing to notice the third shadow that joined the pair. They had not traveled more than five feet when the lantern was suddenly felled, engulfed in dominating darkness.

"Eustache?" Rosalie called, in an alarmed whisper.

There was no response, only the sound of staggering steps.

"Eustache?" she said more loudly.

Her hand reached out into the darkness, and she felt her wrist caught – by another hand. Rosalie's body stiffened. She knew the hand did not belong to Eustache, for she felt sleek leather against her skin. When Rosalie had taken Eustache's hand, it had been bare.

"Eustache!" she cried a third time, frightened for there was real cause for alarm. Eustache did not respond to her calls, leaving Rosalie in dread. It was impossible that he had fled and left her. Eustache would not commit such an act of cowardice. The darkness was so thick he would not be able to see where he went. No. Eustache had become victim to the third person that now held her, and she did not doubt she was next.

Rosalie pulled her arm violently in an attempt to free herself, but the hand that held her had an iron grip. A second hand grabbed her other wrist, and not being isolated members, a pair of arms followed. One of them secured her waist.

Rosalie refused to be a helpless damsel. The fight in her took over. She grounded her heel firmly into the person's foot and with her other struck what she believed to be a leg. She then bit the flesh of the arm. She was certain she had pierced the skin, but the person, whom she did not doubt was male, uttered not a cry, although Rosalie did hear a quick inhale. _Scream, you fool._ She would if she could have, but her nose and mouth were covered with a damp cloth. Desperately did Rosalie writhe and turn, attempting to pry herself away, but to no avail. In a matter of seconds, her vision blurred, and her mind yielded to the same darkness that surrounded her.


	6. Part 4Section 1 In the Depths of Hell

Part 4/Section 1 In the Depths of Hell

The gondola drifted to the lake's shore, its sole lantern glaring through the darkness, though Erik did not need it. His eyes had developed the unique ability to see in the dark. This was his home - he knew it well.

Erik lifted the Comtesse's limp body from the gondola, and in doing so remembered Christine - the present action eerily reminiscent of when he had brought the younger girl to his lair, and much like the Comtesse, it had been completely against her will. The child had fainted in his arms. This woman, however, did not seem the type prone to swooning. She had proved herself strong-willed, determined, and excessively stubborn. The fresh bruises and wounds his body bore were proof of it. What to do with such a woman?

He had not the slightest intention of keeping her. His overall plan to frighten her, and in doing so, keep her silent for the remainder of her years in regards to killers, ghosts, phantoms and any other such type of notoriety associated with him. He did mean to engage in a thorough cross-examination of her, much as she wanted to question him, but at present, all conversation was deferred; he must wait 'til she proved herself in her most controlled state of mind. Until then, where to place her? There was no need to make her comfortable.

Erik considered chaining her in the dungeon, but even as he contemplated it, his heart, twitched -- that type of treatment reserved for criminals. Though she had trespassed, she had not committed a crime. She was merely a woman - albeit meddlesome - who cared enough for her husband to risk her own life. The idea of killing her and sending her with her dearly departed husband crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Erik did not kill for the mere sake of doing so.

He decided to put her in the Louise-Philippe room, though it was with much trepidation that he entered. Christine's spirit still haunted the room. He could feel her presence, and it cut him deeply. The area still contained all of the items he had purchased for her.

Erik placed the Comtesse down on the bed, watching her a moment. He realized that no matter how brief the Lady's stay was, he had, once again, complicated his life. Someone would come looking for her, of that much he was certain. However, her Gentleman friend - Eustache was it - was in no position to lead the hunt. Erik had left him bleeding on the other side of the lake. He would take his body to the graveyard and allow Fate to deal with him. He did not want rotting corpses near his home. If the man lived, which was doubtful, the Lady would have long been released, and would be by his side, convincing him of the fabricated story Erik would make sure she repeated.

Before departing, Erik bound the Comtesse firmly. After tying her hands and feet, he secured the ropes on her limbs to the head and foot of the bed. He sensed the woman to be the type who would not sit still, her mind and body always on the move. His act was as much for his benefit as for her security.

"I hope you enjoy your stay Comtesse," Erik said to Rosalie's unconscious form. "It will be short but memorable. I promise you that."

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Rosalie awoke to the sensation of a pounding headache. She instinctively tried to rub her eyes and discovered she could not – her hands firmly. It took her all but a fraction of a second to discover her feet tied as well, and when she tried to sit up, she could not: the bindings of her limbs attached to the bed frame.

Rosalie's heart sunk, and fear was the next sensation to wash over her. What had happened? Where was she? Who had brought her here? Where was Eustache? She ached for the fate he might have met with. She thought perhaps that he was not far away, but her reason soon told her that was not likely.

"Eustache, forgive me," she breathed repentantly. After another moment's pause: "Philippe, what have I done?" she called out softly, tears springing to her eyes. She spoke a quick prayer for Eustache's soul, followed by one for herself. She prayed that God would strengthen and encourage her. That she would be ready to meet who or whatever came through that door.

But nothing and no one entered, and in her helpless state she had no concept of time. She began to wonder if she would rather not have something happen; being alone with her thoughts was torture enough.

"God forbid, Rosalie! For once, stop with the foolish thoughts," she admonished herself. "All your thinking is what got you here in the first place."

She lifted her head and allowed her eyes to rove around the room, leaving a photographic image in her memory. She needed to study everything in order to give the police the most accurate description of her captor's environment. It was only a matter of time before they came to in pursuit of her, and she wanted to aid them in every way possible - provided she was still alive.

Rosalie wondered if she was in the underground lair Eustache had spoken of. If she was, it was hardly what she had imagined it to be. She was in the bedroom of a modestly furnished apartment. There was dark furniture surrounding her, none of it particularly fancy. No decorations covered the walls. Everything was neat, clean, and well arranged. Would a murderous fiend attempt to keep such simple quarters? Rosalie's mind flew to cases she had read in papers bearing murderers' profiles. She had read investigative journals and heard the discussions of lawyers and magistrates. The criminals were always described in the most derogatory terms, debased to their lowest forms. Looking about the room, this particular person did not fit the attributed "normal" pattern.

Rosalie wished she could move freely about the room. Though she could wriggle in her bindings, she could not leave the bed, tethered as she was. Had she not been so, she could inspect the confines of her room: check the drawers, rummage the closet, and maybe find proof of some sort. Of course, her jailor had thought of that before she had or else he would not have taken such pains to secure her. She came to realize this was a premeditated action. How had she announced her presence? She recalled her question of the walls having ears. They obviously had more than that. _Some_ man stood behind all this. The Opera Ghost was real. Rosalie was no longer in any doubt of her being in the confines of his underground lair, and she trembled violently at the thought of what awaited her.

Two hours later, Erik returned. He removed his cloak, hat, and gloves, and made his way to the door. He stood and paused, listening for any sounds.

Inside, Rosalie had fallen into a light sleep. Though Erik had not made the slightest noise, Rosalie sensed his ominous presence, and awoke with a start. Oh, Lord, the Ghost stood outside of the door! After wondering how she would feel about meeting him, she decided she was not ready. She shut her eyes tightly and recited the twenty-third Psalm.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen… Amen… Amen…." She repeated the last word breathlessly, panicked as she was.

From outside the door, Erik heard her recitations, smirking. How appropriate for him to be thought of as the "shadow of death". He had always believed himself to be the embodiment of the Grim Reaper. Let her believe her feeble prayers answered, and he betook himself to his own room. It was, after all, only the wee hours of the morning. He would let her rest and gather her strength. Pleasantries could wait for later.


	7. Part 4 Section 2

Part 4/Section 2

A middle-aged porter sauntered through the graveyard as he did every morning. It was the quickest way to run his errands. He turned the corner and passed by the fountain at his accustomed pace, taking the same amount of steps, his stride and rhythm never broken. In all likelihood, the porter could walk the grounds with his eyes closed; he had the path well memorized. The morning was just like any other, a bit of frost covering the grass and tombstones. He recalled the sun creeping up past the hills, chasing away the darkness of the night and replacing it with the newness of the morning. He never stopped to admire any of it - his mind always focused on his impending tasks. But that morning something did stop him, and for the first time in his twenty-two years of service he disregarded his errand, realizing his help was needed elsewhere. The change of plans came in the form of a gentleman, still dressed in his fine evening clothes, excepting his hat and cloak, face down on the ground.

The porter ran to the man, anticipating the worse. Tossing aside his cap, he knelt by him; he swallowed hard when he noticed the blood caked to the back of his head. The porter turned him over, noting the gentleman's pallid features: how purple his lips were, how cold his body felt. The man had lost a lot of blood and barely breathed. The porter felt for his pulse, and issued a quick sigh of relief. The man lived - for the moment.

Using all his strength, the porter threw the wounded man over his shoulder, taking a dramatically different pace from when he first passed through the graveyard. He ran to the nearest chapel, crying for help, praying it was not too late.

Rushed to the nearest hospice, kind monks cared for Eustache in the absence of a doctor. They cleaned his head wound, but did not wrap it, waiting for the sought after physician to examine him. They did change his clothes, and tried to make him comfortable, though it was hard to ascertain if they succeeded as the gentleman remained unconscious.

Dr. Bruyere arrived within the hour. He was an older man with thin grey hair, and squarish glasses he kept pinned on the edge of his nose. He thanked the monks for their good work and attention, and then turned to the patient himself. Judging from the attire the monks had removed, the patient was obviously a man of consequence, and not one from Bruyere's customary lot.

It did not take the doctor long to ascertain the gentleman's condition, and after dressing the wound, he sat back and wrote on a paper, "Coma – cause: head trauma." He then sat and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. There really was not much more he could do for the patient at this point, only continue to provide him with the palliative care he thus received, and see who could come forth and provide identification.

Some time in the evening, the porter returned to check on the gentleman. He removed his cap and beckoned the doctor to the door. He did not wish to enter and disturb the patient, fearful lest he infect him.

"It's perfectly safe to enter," the doctor said, but still stood and met him at the door.

"How is he?" the porter asked.

"Not well," Dr. Bruyere admitted with a sigh. He then looked the man over trying to see where laid the connection between the two men. "Do you know this man?" he asked.

"No, sir. I happened upon him on my walk to deliver a parcel."

The doctor nodded and patted the man on the shoulder. "Thank God you came around when you did. What is your name, sir?"

"Hervé Grantere," the man responded simply.

"Monsieur Grantere-"

"Hervé, if you please, good doctor."

"Well, Hervé, you are this man's guardian angel. Any longer and he would have died. Though I admit, his condition is poor I have seen worse recover. You gave this man a chance."

Hervé frowned, gazing at Eustache's bloated features. "What do you make of it, doctor?"

"An attack no doubt."

Hervé did not start at the declaration. He suspected as much when he saw the wound. Many a man had been robbed before, but it sickened him that it took place in the graveyard, and he said as much.

The doctor shook his head. "Do not ask me why, but I do not believe this attack occurred in the graveyard, and it was not a robbery, of that I am almost certain. Except for the man's cloak and hat, he has the rest of his possessions. This is a completely different case," Dr. Bruyere commented. However, he stopped short of saying that he person had left him to die. If the perpetrator had wanted him dead, he would not have placed the man's still living body in a public area. It was a rather compassionate move for a criminal, almost as if he wanted the victim found. It was puzzling indeed.

"Now what doctor?" Hevré asked, bringing Dr. Bruyere out of his thoughts.

"We fetch Le Commissaire. He needs to be informed, and he will want your testimony. They will not be able to get anything out of _him_." The doctor jerked his head in Eustache's direction.

Both men turned their eyes on Eustache, whose breaths came out slight and shallow. His life clung on a balance.


	8. Part 5 sec1 Impressions and Exchanges

Part 5/Section 1 Impressions and Exchanges

Despite her perturbed mind, sheer exhaustion forced Rosalie to sleep for several hours, though in fits.

Upon awakening, Rosalie blinked her eyes and turned her head, straining her vision into focus. She still lay sequestered in the same room, still in dire situation, but one thing differed dramatically. It took her several moments to figure the change, until she sat up easily – her bindings gone.

The knowledge gave Rosalie new strength, and she sprang from her bed; her first object to reach the door nearest her, and yet once there, she hesitated. Her captor would not have untied her if he thought there was even the slightest prospect of escape. The house was probably well secured. Her mind warned her against the possibility of traps. Still, she had to try. Even if what lay on the other side of the door fared worse, she would regret not having known. Swallowing hard, the Comtesse turned the knob… and found herself in a private bath.

Rosalie's slow exhale intermingled relief and disappointment. The knowledge of a lavatory by her bedside brought a strange sense of comfort, but it would have been infinitely better to find the front door.

She cast her gaze suspiciously about the polished surroundings. An immense porcelain-coated bathtub in the middle of the room claimed her attention first, never having seen one quite as grand. In a corner opposite the majestic tub, she found an intricately designed basin, its Italian ewer counterpart sitting placidly inside. She rubbed her hand across her head, the strangeness of the situation confounding her. Since when did criminals bother to keep such tidy living quarters equipped with providing their "guests" with discretion and hygienic essentials? He must be a very clean man. Perhaps it was a metaphoric representation; he could not live a pure life and such devoted his to physical cleanliness. She staggered over to the basin, lifting the ewer; gratified to find fresh water in it, she dampened her face and neck. Upon straightening, she noticed her reflection in a mirror - the dreadful visage reflecting her ordeal.

Her prearranged bun practically collapsed to her shoulders, and dark shadows under her eyes confirmed her exhaustion. In attempting to smooth her crumpled dress, she discovered slight tears at the seams; she imagined those occurred during the struggle, as she dared not venture to think worse. Rosalie returned to the tub where she sat at its edge and contemplated her next move. Her mind always attempted to stay a step ahead of any situation, but for the first time in her life, she had no idea what to do. The helplessness of her condition made her throat knot and her eyes brim with tears. She told herself a good cry would not help her. The best thing to do was wait and see where the matter led, though the possibilities of her capture were endless.

Rosalie returned to her room and busied herself by opening the drawers of the mahogany chest. Her facial features contorted to shocked surprise. She pulled out some of the items consisting of several chemises, corsets, stockings, garters, and even pantalets. Holding the lacy unmentionable between thumb and forefinger, her mind raced with ideas as to why these particular items were laid in her confines. Her thoughts overbearing her, she issued a small cry and let the undergarments slip noiselessly to the floor.

_Dear God, I am the prisoner of a sexual deviant._ She stared at the ruffled underpants lying at her feet. The idea almost threw her into a fit of panic, but instead she leaned against a wall and fought for control. Pushing falling, disheveled locks away from her face, she massaged her temples. Once sufficiently composed, she returned the pantalets back to its drawer, and the ever-pressing questions returned.

What type of man was this who kept sanitized bathrooms and ladies' garments? None of it made sense. None of it followed a pattern. Rosalie puzzled over the evidence in vain. In doing so, she grew desirous to meet him, hoping she could piece everything together. One fact she could not ignore, the man was quiet. In the time she had been in the room moving about and inspecting, he had not stirred. Certainly, he could hear her quick steps and eager movements; listen to her small whimpers and continual gasps. His persistent silence mystified her as she felt that an unusual masculine quality. Her own husband, clumsy in all his maneuvers, had continually tripped over his very two feet. There had never been anything light and cautious about him – even in bed. Was this noiseless man the same one who had struck down and murdered Philippe? The more she thought of the swiftness of her abduction and the sudden disappearance of Eustache, she grew confident in her assertion.

Another long period passed, and Rosalie who had nothing to do but think let her imagination take a turn for the worst. Her mind filled with images of what her captor had planned for her, each idea darker than the last. No longer able to bear her inner workings, she stood, letting her gaze sweep the room. When thrice having turned her head, she viewed a door she had failed to notice before. A small gleam of hope rekindled and she ran to the partition, rattling the knob. She paused and listened. Nothing. Rosalie had a sudden vision of her kidnapper. She could see him dressed in black -- tall, elegant, but with a malevolent air. When she looked at his face, the vision blurred. It angered her that out of all the things her brain envisioned, his face would not be one of them. Filled with rage, and tired of remaining confined to four walls and a bed, Rosalie began to beat against the door.

"Let us be clear! You cannot keep me here!"

Silence.

"You would do well to open this door!" she ordered, assuming her haughtiest tone. "I am a very important woman!" She wondered if she should have mentioned that. If the thought had not occurred to him before, he may demand a ransom. Her fears quieted as her revelation met no answer.

Infuriated, Rosalie began streaming French curses as she kicked the door with all of her might to no avail. All of her actions met with the same, still response. Perhaps he was not present after all; if such was the case, there was no harm in breaking down the door. Finding the first object she thought might do the trick, she picked up a candlestick and hammered it against the wooden barricade. Splinters flew, and her arms grew sore, but she did no more damage to the door than leave a few dents. Exhausted after her tirade, she was about to regain her seat on the bed when she heard a voice.

"Is that any way for a lady to behave? What would your dearly departed husband say, Comtesse Rosalie Giselle de Chagney?"

The Lady froze. The voice sounded as if it were inside the very room. She spun in all directions, expecting to find someone behind her, but no one was there. Where did the voice come from? She had heard it before - that beautiful, melodious, eloquent voice – yes, in the opera box; the haunting, cold tones still rang in her ears.

"How dare you mention my husband, vile, heartless man? Do you have no respect for the dead?" She turned about the entire room, unsure which way to aim her question.

The returned exchange shook her to her core.

"I have great respect for the dead, for I am a part of them." With that announcement, the door creaked open.

Rosalie clutched her heart, her breathing heavy, her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for the demon who spoke, but nothing entered. Could she step out? Only a few moments ago, she had been only too ready to do so, but now given the opportunity, fear grounded her. She knew nothing truly bad had happened while she remained in the room. What guarantee of safety would she have once she left?

_Help me, Philippe_. Making the sign of the cross with trembling hands, Rosalie stepped out.

She started at discovering but a yard from the door a dark-cladded figure of a man, not too unlike the one she envisioned. He had a sinister, enigmatic air that penetrated the surrounding atmosphere. He was dressed in gentleman's attire: a waistcoat, shirt and tie, and dark trousers, and was unusually tall and exceedingly slim. A black mask concealed his face. Some may have found that singular, but Rosalie did not. It was apparent the man wanted to conceal his identity, and she scorned his cowardice. His strangest physical attribute was his eyes, the hue of them almost yellow. They glowed. When she purposely stared at him, she found the eyes burned right through her, imprinting themselves forever in her memory.

For a moment, neither one spoke, each one taking the other one in - a battle of the wills begun.

"Well, milady, have you no more to say?" Erik asked, deciding to break the silence first. He had anticipated some daring scene from the woman, though not so soon. It rather amused him.

Rosalie did not share in his amusement. His taunting revived her, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from lunging at him and pulling off the mask. Instead, she erected her stance and lifted her face, hoping her defiance matched his.

"I have been looking for you." She expected to shock him.

"I am aware," was the simple reply to her bold confession.

Another minute of strange silence followed. Erik noted the guarded distance the Lady kept between them. Unaware of his intent she was understandably terrified, but did not recoil as he had seen many men do in times past when confronted by him. He admired her for it.

It was Rosalie's turn to break the silence. "You obviously know who I am and why I am here. Since you know so much, perhaps you would enlighten me as to why you killed my husband." She spoke contemptuously. Her anger checked her tears.

"You waste no time, Madame, but I am afraid we have not been properly introduced for you to take the liberty in asking such personal questions. We will have to become better acquainted with one another first."

Rosalie, taken aback by his response, was at a momentary loss for words.

Erik continued, "You must learn to phrase your petitions more kindly or you will find your investigation _dead_ before it begins." His manner was light, almost playful, as if he mocked her, mocked her loss. Rosalie wished she still had the candlestick in her hands.

"Despicable scoundrel! You think you can frighten me with your sinister words and that ridiculous mask! Let it be known, I do not give in easily to such feeble attempts at intimidation."

Erik cocked his head slightly and said, "And who has ever dared try to intimidate you, Madame -- you of noble birth, no doubt used to having your own way." There was sarcasm in his voice. "What do you know of perseverance, and intimidation, or fear for that matter?" He paused, wondering whether to address the next issue, but as experience had proved its eventuality, he continued. "As for this mask, let us suffice to say the mask is worn to lessen the fright." The voice softened considerably, only to harden a second later. "Learn to appreciate it."

Rosalie found the man more puzzling, more troubling with every word uttered, but she did catch something in his tone she had not yet heard: vulnerability. Momentarily caught off guard and confused as to what it signified, she soon recovered, especially after his snappish tone. Her defenses built again, and her mind told her it was nothing more than a trick. This was, after all, a murder. Lies and deceit would be second nature to him. Hardening her heart, she fired again.

"It does not matter to me why you wear that mask. Your features are of minimal importance. I already know what your heart looks like: putrid and black. Your face could not possibly be any worse."

Though Rosalie could not see his reaction, she saw his flaming eyes enflame even more. The man had a weakness after all, and she savored the small wound she had inflicted. It was short-lived, however, for he answered with contrived evenness:

"Ignorant fools make regretful statements."

"I am no ignorant fool, monsieur, and there is _nothing_ I regret more than being here with _you_!" She hissed viciously. If he meant to keep her here, she would make sure he rued it. She would be extremely ill behaved. Without thinking, she stepped closer to him.

Without another word, Erik reached over, gripping her arm with a violent tug. He dragged her into the drawing room and tossed her into a seat. Rosalie yelped.

"Please, Madame, do sit down," he said with gallant sarcasm. Outraged, Rosalie immediately stood; her stubborn resistance met with Erik pushing her down with greater force.

"You pig!" she cried. "No one treats me like this!"

Erik began to tire of her shrills, though he knew that was exactly what she meant to do. Christine had tried the same technique, abusing him with violent words, slamming doors in his face, but he loved Christine and forgave her everything. This woman, on the other hand, was an annoying wench. Erik would have liked nothing more than to toss her into the lake, in the hopes she did not know how to swim. He restrained himself in that regards. However, feeling to need to remind her of who he was, he grabbed each of her dainty wrists and pressed them against the arms of the chair while he leaned in closely.

"Madame Comtesse, you would do best to watch that sharp little tongue of yours and behave in a manner that best suits a lady of your station. I am a man whose patience is very limited."

Rosalie resented his touch. His hands felt cold against her skin reminding her of death. Her first instinct was to pull away, but when she tried, he applied greater force demonstrating he had not unleashed the full extent of his strength. She supposed she should have been terrified. Her fluttering heart and trembling arms certainly implied so, but her soul reacted differently. Gazing hatefully at him she said, "You are no man. You are a monster, not even fit to be called a creation of God."

Erik lurched the Comtesse's body forward, only to push her back the following instant. Releasing her, he turned away, but Rosalie had not finished. Mistaking his retreat as her victory, she continued. "You must be filled with the devil if the mention of the Almighty makes you flee. Devil's spawn! Your mother certainly cursed the day she gave birth to you." Rosalie witnessed his entire length stiffen. She knew she treaded dangerous ground, but could not call upon lady-like restraint. Too many months of anger and pain rushed forward in a span of seconds. Who knew how long she had to live? Rising from her seat, she fired another insult.

"Or perhaps this was all her doing. Did your mother sleep with Lucifer himself? Did she prostitute her soul to receive you in exchange? Poor, mad woman. She would have been better yielding to death before conceiving sin itself."

Rosalie knew she went too far, even before the man returned to her, hissing. With arms spread overhead, he descended upon her like a bird of prey. Rosalie stood her ground, braving whatever was to come. She saw the hand fly and felt the burning sensation across her face, causing her to stumble and her head to strike a table. For the second time, the Comtesse succumbed to unconsciousness.


	9. Part 5 Section 2

Part 5/Section 2

A tall, robust man arrived at the door of the Victorian mansion. He smoothed the corners of his dark moustache and straightened his hat after knocking. As he waited for a response, a great yawn escaped him. Despite his sturdy, vigorous build, the man was tired and hungry. He had risen very early that morning, called to look into a strange attack. He had not sufficient time to breakfast, though he had managed to down a few swigs of liquor - done more out of habit than necessity, though at times he confused the two; he believed the action kept him awake, enabling him to deal with the multitude of inexplicable cases that came in his direction. He did not complain. It was his life's work to investigate, no matter how tiresome or gruesome the case.

Le Commissaire had paid a visit to the hospice where Monsieur Rousseau laid, and witnessed the paltry condition of the man reported missing and found. His next stop was to visit the man's traveling companion from the night before, the fair Comtesse. Perhaps, she would invite him to have a small luncheon with her while shedding light on the previous night's events. The idea of settling both matters at once appealed to him.

While he waited for someone to come to the door, he thought about the wound inflicted on Rousseau. He had read the physician's report and found it perplexing. What was the motive for the attack, where was the attacker's weapon, and more importantly, who was the attacker? As he puzzled over the final question, Miriette ran to the door. The sight of Le Commissaire filled her with panic, as the Mistress had not returned. She feared he brought very bad news.

"_Bonjour, Monsieur Le __Commissaire. Comme-talez vous cette matin__?"_ Miriette smiled, trying to avoid jumping to any sort of conclusion, and tried to keep her voice pleasant.

"_Très bien, merci__,"_ he answered, not returning the smile. Years of investigating crimes had turned him into a hardened, cynical man. His empty stomach made him cantankerous.

"_Entrez, s'il vous plait_," Miriette said, opening the door wider.

"_Merci de nouveau__,"_ he returned. He hated exchanging polite formalities. They were a waste of his time. Le Commissaire looked about the room. Miriette offered him a seat, which he declined to take. She now knew duty had brought him to the Comtesse's door, and she began to worry.

"Is everything all right, Monsieur? Did something happen to the Comtesse?" she asked, unable to wait for him to bear the news upon her.

Le Commissaire stared at the young maid for a moment, her words slowly sinking in.

"_La Comtesse n'est pas ici?"_

"Non Monsieur," Miriette answered, her voice filling with panic. "She went out last night with Monsieur Rousseau and has not yet returned. I had hoped she was still with him." In fact, as night turned to day and there was still no sign of the Comtesse, the servants assumed she had spent the night with Monsieur Rousseau. They had hoped it had been a pleasant stay as well. Though shocking, they would not judge. Their beloved Mistress deserved a little happiness in her life.

Le Commissaire closed his eyes, a curse escaping his lips. His case had just taken a complicated turn. There went his prospect of having a small meal.

"_Pardonne-moi, Madamoiselle_," he apologized, "but as we speak, Monsieur Rousseau is lying in a coma, fighting for his life."

Miriette let out a horrified cry, and began to lament for her Mistress, certain she lay dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse. Fear, doubt, and panic set into the young woman. A strange idea formed in her head.

"_Excuse-moi_, Monsieur Le Commissaire, but you do not suspect the Comtesse for what happened to Monsieur Rousseau? She may be feisty, but-" Miriette stopped, biting her lip lest she said something to incriminate Madame's good name.

"I think nothing until I have all the facts before me. At this moment, I need to know where she is," he said wearily. "Did she say when she would return?"

"_Non, monsieur_. We assumed she should have been back last night," Miritte replied as she wrung her hands against her apron. "She's been kidnapped! Or killed! Or maimed!" She then began to cry, pulling the twisted cloth to her face.

Le Commissaire sighed, finding he would have to console the young maid. His mind failed with calming words, and he could not bring himself to wrap his arm around her small shoulder. Finding he was not suited for the task, he tried a different course.

"Perhaps she came to pick up a few items and left," he asked hopefully, stretching for something. What exactly it was, he did not know. Sometimes, these sort of things had a way of unveiling themselves.

Again, there was a negative response. "All of her things are as she left them." Miritte hiccupped into her apron.

Le Commissaire thought for a moment. "Do you know where she went? Did she tell you of her plans?"

"_Oui, Monsieur,_" Miriette swiftly answered, glad to be of some use. "Both Madame and Monsieur Rousseau went to the Opera Garnier to see the new production."

Le Commissaire was about to utter another curse, but restrained himself. He had to take his investigation - yet again - to the one place he hated above all others: the opera house. He disliked interviewing the people there. They were all of one mind, everything being blamed on the so-called Ghost, whether in jest or in earnest. He never got anywhere with those people. Deciding it was best to get it over with as quickly as possible, he placed his hat back on his head and thanked the young Lady's maid. He turned to go, only pausing to petition her cooperation if she received any news. With a grunt, he walked down the front steps of the house, muttering curses down the path, until he heard Miriette call after him.

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" She waved a piece of paper in her hand. "I am not in the habit of going through my Lady's personal correspondence, but I thought perhaps you should have a look at this letter." Miriette handed him the note Rosalie had received from Raoul three days back. In doing so, she hoped Le Commissaire would see the Comtesse as a victim, instead of an accessory to attempted murder.

Le Commissaire glanced over the letter, quickly recognizing the name and recalling the boy's own personal problems at the opera house less than a year ago. He noted the reluctant, almost fearful tone of the letter, guarding the Comtesse from going near the ill-fated building. He then recollected the Comtesse's obsession months ago with finding her husband's killer. He wondered….

Le Commissaire thanked Miriette a second time, returning the letter. The Opera House search would have to wait a moment as he felt the need to speak to the Vicomte. That meant taking a ride north. He hated traveling.

_Damn that opera house with all of its mysteries_; it had to be cursed.


	10. Part 6 The Comtesse and the Ghost

Part 6 The Comtesse and the Ghost

Rosalie groaned. The right side of her head throbbed, the left side of her face stung, and when she opened her eyes, her vision blurred. She closed her eyes again knowing she once again lay in her cell of a room.

She recalled her last words before the strike. What on Earth had made her use such abusive language? Yes, her husband had been murdered, Eustache's whereabouts were unknown, and she was held a prisoner, but she had no right to issue such an insult to _that thing's _mother of whom she knew nothing about. The woman had probably been a very good sort of lady, and if she had lived to see what her son had become then she had probably died of heartache. Rosalie reprimanded herself. What kind of Christian was she? Although uncertain, she supposed she had been in his lair less than a day, and already she had become a vulgar, uncouth woman.

Mayhaps the blow to the head had revived her senses, but she felt more in control of her emotions. Her ability to reason increased. She realized her recent behavior would by no means help her cause. Perhaps if she remained thoughtful and well mannered, she could reason with him to set her at liberty. It was a stretch, but it was the best plan she had by far.

She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, noticing some cloths and a small bowl of water on the table by her bedside. Rosalie picked up one of the damp rags; bringing it to her nose, she caught the scent of liquor. It amazed her that she was still alive. The mysteriously shrouded man could have killed her at any given moment, but he had not. Instead, he took the time to tend to her wound. It was beyond all, and Rosalie tried hard not to think of it, fearful her pounding head would explode.

Adding to her headache was his haunting voice; it resonated in her mind. So beautiful, so unearthly, she had never heard its like before. It reached her in a manner that none other ever had. What a shame he used it to speak threats and loathsome words.

Rosalie stood slowly. She did not bother to look at herself in the mirror, certain her face could be no less frightening than the one he took such great care to conceal. She would soon need a mask as well.

Convinced the second interview could not possibly fare worse than the first, she proceeded to leave the room in search of him, as he'd left the door unlocked. She walked to the drawing room, the only other place in the dwelling she had been to. Finding it unoccupied, she busied herself by examining the surroundings. The room had a small fireplace, a sofa, and two other chairs. There would be no need for him to have a large parlor; he obviously did no hosting. For adornments, he had a clock on the mantel of the fireplace, candlesticks, and silk flowers in baskets. She mused a bit over the last article. Why would a murdering fiend want to keep such silly, inexpensive flowers? She understood why he would not have live ones; they would die much too soon. But would that not suit his personality better? Why have flowers at all? She so desperately wanted to understand him, and at the same time, questioned why the need was so great. She closed her eyes in an attempt to soothe herself.

Erik watched the Lady's internal musings from a hidden spot in the drawing room. Her bruises startled him. He had not meant to strike her so. Rarely did he unleash his anger on women, but she was so provoking! When her head hit the table, he feared her dead. Something that felt like concern went through him. The pang of sudden remorse and compassion surprised him, for he had thought those sentiments dead – or at least dormant – within him. Erik had listened for her breath and pulse, satisfied with their regularity. He then picked her up and returned her to the room where he cleaned the wound near her temple while placing an icy wash towel on her upper cheek.

He attempted to comprehend her rage. He had left her a widow in another one of his brash, unthinking moves, murdering her husband by the foot of the lake on that fateful day. Later he would learn compassion, but too bad for the elder de Chagny who happened upon Erik about two hours too soon. Any later, the Comte would have in all likelihood survived, and he spared this latest trial.

But there was no altering the past, and now Erik had his widow following her husband's footsteps in an attempt to uncover the truth of the ghost. When would people learn to leave him alone? Perhaps when he stopped with his own devilish ways, came the answer to his own question. Erik sighed. The woman had courage and foreseeable determination, and despite her bruises, overwhelming beauty. Erik was sensible of it, though admitted as much with great reluctance. Beauty was a trap, a tool used for seduction and temptation. Even when women did not use it to their advantage, men were still powerless under its force.

He studied her a bit longer. This woman's face displayed all the signs of notable intelligence, with a heightened, sharpened mind. Add to that her dark, raven-black hair, which hung in stark contrast to the purity of her light face, and her violet colored eyes, and even Erik admitted the exquisiteness of her appearance. She had the look of a porcelain doll. He had been through most of Europe and had seen much of the eastern world, and he had yet to encounter a face quite like hers. Christine's face was angelic; the Comtesse's was goddess-like.

Erik suspected that she would not remain a widow for long. That fool he had struck down was already smitten. If the man were dead, it would be a terrible coincidence he kept eliminating her lovers. Erik wished the man still lived, for though he was a dupe, he seemed an honest one who could perhaps restore some happiness to her.

He stayed behind the curtain lengthening his observation. He wanted to know if the Comtesse would try anything, search for a way to escape or go through his belongings. She did not. She sat properly and complacently in the chair with her ankles crossed, and her hands folded. She studied the room about her, but with less intensity than he would have expected. It dawned on Erik she had not had anything to eat yet, and it was past noontime. He would have to feed her. He could not let her starve.

Erik went into the kitchen, where he prepared tea and egg biscuits. Just as quietly, he returned to the drawing room, his tentative peace offering carried in an antique Persian tray.

"Eat," he ordered, placing the food before her on a small table.

Rosalie jumped at the sound of his voice. Her surprise grew when she viewed the food and drink. She raised her eyebrows.

"No, Madame, they are not poisoned," he said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Ever suspicious, Rosalie reached out slowly and gingerly placed the biscuit to her lips. She sniffed the bread, mumbling a quick prayer before biting it. After swallowing the first bite and waiting a few seconds, she proceeded to take another one, thanking him as she did.

This was a different woman from the one Erik had carried to the room two hours prior. She was restrained and quiet. In all probability, she had fatigued herself with her outbursts and violence, but whatever the reason, Erik welcomed the change.

Sitting himself across the room, he crossed one long leg over the other. "After you have eaten and gathered some strength, I should like you to freshen up. The room in which you currently reside has some ladies clothing which, I believe, will fit you. If nothing does, tell me, and I will find appropriate attire for you."

Rosalie gave him a troubled look. What did he care if the clothes fit or not? Why should she bother to change? Where _did_ those clothes come from? She would not wear a dead woman's garments, someone he perhaps raped and then murdered, her body stowed God only knew where.

Erik read the Comtesse's expression, and though her opinion mattered little to him, he felt the need to clarify one thing.

"I kept only one other woman here. Yes, it was also against her will, though I convinced myself she could come and go as she pleased." He rested a hand on his propped up leg, and leaned over a bit. "Ease your mind, Madame. I do not force myself upon women."

A soft blush spread over Rosalie's face. She stared doubtfully at the man opposite her, trying to validate the truth of his words. Deciding she had no other choice but to accept them, she withdrew her look, lowering her eyes. The fanning of her lashes touched Erik unexpectedly. He quickly cleared his throat and continued speaking.

"After dinner, Comtesse, we may have the _tête-à-tête_ you so eagerly desire, but be forewarned, you will not find all answers to your liking."

Rosalie met his declaration with a reply. "_J'entend__ Monsieur_." She paused a moment, fixing her eyes on the Persian teacup, tracing a delicate finger around the brim of its porcelain edge. "May I ask you something?" she slowly inquired.

"I presume you would like to know my name," Erik surmised. The upper class always played the game of civility. Before they bloodied their victims, they made it their business to discover as much about them as possible.

"Yes," she responded.

"I have no desire to give it," was his answer, and he stood abruptly leaving the room, his long legs quickly carrying him away.

Rosalie bit her lip, and in doing so, her tongue. After finishing her small meal, she left to draw her bath.


	11. Part 7 A Night's Affair

Part 7 A Night's Affair

Feeling as if an eternity had passed since last she bathed, Rosalie sat in the massive tub, allowing her body to succumb to the relaxing effect brought by the warm water surrounding her. She wished she could relax her mind, but could not. Sometimes she cursed her gift of intelligence, wondering why crocheting, piano playing, and foreign languages had not been enough for her. As a child, she had received the best education possible from her governess, Mademoiselle Gagnon. As an adult, she took it upon herself to continue her informal education, as she could not attend the university. She studied unusual subjects and investigated strange affairs. This man, no doubt, was the strangest subject she'd yet to encounter, and if not for her precarious position she'd think him fascinating, yet she had to guard her approach towards him. Ever curious, she wanted to know more, but resisted. She should not seek to be on amicable terms with him, even if it was in the interest of study. He was a ruthless criminal, not a harmless lab mouse.

She thought about dinner. Did he know how to cook? She had yet to meet a man that could. If the digested biscuits were any indication of his culinary skills, then she regretfully had to admit he mastered the art. Many women in her circle could not produce so fine a morsel, the finer gentry always relying on their servants. Rosalie had learned by watching her own dear governess, who had taught her to approach cooking from a scientific perspective and in doing so, Rosalie met with success. It was fun kneading dough, and watching it rise. Her thoughts returned to The Man With No Name. It was all odd, almost comical that he would cook for her, and she wondered if he would do it while wearing the mask. She was shocked when a small laugh escaped her lips. How was it possible that she could laugh? How was it viable to go from anger to hatred to submission to humor? Where was she? Who was he? And _what_ on Earth did he hide behind that infernal wooden covering?

She drew a breath, pinched her nose, and disappeared under the water.

A new dilemma unfolded as Rosalie searched through the dresses. Not one was appropriate for a widow in mourning. There were satin salmon-colored dresses, and creamy peach ones. One was fiery red. Rosalie contemplated wearing the vestment. It certainly matched her temperament, but no - she shoved it back into the closet. After sifting through the garments a second time she finally found a dark blue dress, which in certain lights looked black. She pulled out the gown to let it air, spreading it on the bed as the thoughts rushed to her all at once.

Whom had he kept here? Had he been in love? Was he even capable of love? He told her the woman had been brought against her will. Rosalie imagined the poor damsel, drugged and carried off, perhaps laid on this very bed. She touched the quilt, her mind instantly filled with dark thoughts of the woman and _that_ man, laying there. He had said he did not force himself on women, but that was not to imply that he did not try to seduce them. There was something stately and elegant in his manner, and had Rosalie not hated him so much for his crimes, she would have said he had an attractive persona.

Rosalie began to dress. She pulled the chemise and stockings on. Next came the petticoats. A greater problem emerged when she grabbed the corset, as she had never tied one on her own before.

Dear, dear God. She would _not_ ask him, though she had an inkling that his fingers would be adept to the task. She had noticed how long and supple they were. A tremble passed through her, and she shook her head. She would tie her own corset or make do without it. Somehow, she managed, tightening it as best she could. She slipped the dress over her head, turning it backwards to fasten the multitude of buttons. What a slave woman's clothing was! Before she died, she would make it fashionable to wear trousers. When she reached far enough up the buttons, she turned the dress around, slipping her arms through the sleeves. She then buttoned the remaining few, straining her arms in the process. Upon careful inspection of her appearance, she found the dress more revealing than she would have liked, or was accustomed to wearing. Rummaging through the drawers in desperation, she discovered a silk shawl that would provide ample covering.

Exhausted from her struggle with the dress, Rosalie decided to style her hair as simply as possible. She worked one long braid and coiled it around her head, fastening numerous pins to keep it in place. It was not her best work, and some of the shorter tendrils hung loose, but she let them be. They covered her bruised temple. Throwing the shawl over her shoulders, she returned to the drawing room deciding to read while she waited for him. There was a book on poetry lying on the table. She was certain he had pulled it out for her, convinced that all women loved poetry. She cast it aside and took it upon herself to look through his modest collection; finding one on medical anomalies, she read that instead.

Rosalie skimmed the pages quickly as she decided which chapter to devote her attention. She reached a page on physical malformations and her eyes traveled hungrily over the page, reading the harsh black print against the white pages.

Erik happened upon her as she examined the book. Lost to it, she failed to notice, instead devouring the information, her eyes bright with interest. The host eyed his pretty guest interestedly realizing he had an intellectual thinker on his hands. She must have been full of intriguing theories and endless opinions, which he would not mind listening. He gave a quick thought to how she might react if she saw him unmasked, but it was fleeting, for she would never see what he considered his "nakedness."

Unaware of her captor's watchful eye, Rosalie continued her reading of deformities. The current paragraph discussed several human study cases. She was struck by the cold terminology used by the authors in describing the patients; letters or a series of numbers classified them, as if having the misfortune of deformed flesh and bone forfeited their rights as people. Turning the page, she witnessed several sketches of malformed faces. The drawings were horrific -- twisted noses, drooping eyelids, misshapen mouths, sunken cheekbones. She studied a particular likeness in which the entire left side of the person's face appeared melted. Entranced by the one particular picture, her captor's words returned to her:

_The mask is worn to lessen the fright_. She could see his mask as he said it. Her focus returned to the picture before her. Could it be possible…?

Erik chose that moment to speak. "Come. The dinner is all prepared," he announced, waking her out of her thoughts.

Rosalie looked up at him - at the mask - dropping the book, a frightened expression on her face. Erik suspected he had come too suddenly upon her, shocking her again. He did not notice the nature of the book she read, and therefore had no idea what crossed her mind. He watched her curiously as she wetted her lips, and with a shaky breath picked the book from her lap. She stood, returned the item to its shelf, and followed him to the dining table.

They did not walk side by side, a few steps separating them. Rosalie tried to keep her gaze down, but from time to time glanced at the man, her suspicions concerning his face growing. He could not look like the illustrations in the book. It was coincidental.

Erik, too, glanced at his companion, but his thoughts were of a completely nature. He studied her beauty and exquisite form, noticing her posture, walk, and figure. All were elegant. She was tall, lithe, and graceful. Her figure remained un-matronly. Her hips and waist were small for a married woman. He surmised she had not yet had children, and began to wonder why. As his gaze traveled up and down her form, he noticed the shawl she continually clutched to her chest.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No," she said somewhat breathlessly. "I, I did not feel the dress was appropriate…." Her voice trailed off; she owed him no explanations.

Erik comprehended her need for societal customs and principles. Her religious background would not allow her to contradict them. It would be the equivalent of sin - not that any of that mattered to him. He placed very little importance on either, but he understood the game of propriety.

"I will fetch more suitable attire for you," he announced. He said it with such finality; no one would have dared protest – except for the Comtesse.

"It is not necessary. I have no intention of making my stay here permanent," she replied, raising her eyebrows. Feeling her impetuosity rising, she tried to soften her expression and tone. "I do not… wish… to stay here. You have better things to do than to look after a widow, I am sure." She prayed to God that was certain.

Erik smiled behind his mask at her attempt to dissuade him of his plans. He offered no comment, quietly pulling out a seat for her as she took it. He then served her chicken, roast potatoes, and stewed vegetables, all with wine.

Rosalie thanked him for his attentions, though it was stiff and forced. There was such irony the gesture. What did he want? Why did he treat her to a fine meal? Why not keep her chained somewhere and throw food in her direction? She thought of the children's stories, where the characters were tricked into being fattened, only to be cooked themselves later on. She had read about primitive tribes that practiced cannibalism, and then pleaded with herself to reason. He was no cannibal. He could not enjoy the pleasure of human flesh. A sickening feeling began to grow inside of her. She stared at her food, pushing it about with her fork.

"Please eat, Madame. I dare say you need your energy. It will not do to have you waste away while you are here," Erik said almost kindly.

Rosalie sighed, and repressing the thoughts of human consumption brought the first bite to her lips. The food was exquisite, cooked to perfection. The potatoes melted in her mouth, and the chicken stripped easily from the bone. The hesitant taste made her realize at once how hungry she was; in a few minutes, she'd devoured the meal in a manner that bordered uncivil. However, it did not offend her host, who ate nothing at all. Rosalie was about to inquire why he did not partake of his meal when it dawned on her he would have to remove his mask. The images in the book quickly brought back to mind, she began to take his hidden features very seriously, and glanced away.

Erik immediately noticed. "What is wrong, Madame?" he asked.

She stared at the napkin on her lap, twisting the edge of it. "I should not have come this way upon you. I should have let you be. Allowed your conscience to stir within you."

"What makes you think I have a conscience?" Erik quizzed, secretly wondering at her sudden regret.

"All men do. Some of us have learned to ignore it," she stated piously. He had to have a conscience, or at least a sense of consciousness. She tried to reason with it. "If you had any sense of justice, sir, you would attempt to rectify the wrongdoings you have committed in your life."

"Those are noble thoughts, but I have not your principles. Besides, I cannot raise the dead," Erik responded in his dry, aloof fashion. "Why waste time regretting on what cannot come to pass?"

Rosalie flinched, thinking of Philippe. The man had promised her an explanation. She would address the topic again. "You had no right to kill him."

"He had no right to be here," he swiftly countered.

A heavy silence fell between them. Rosalie's anger rose, but she fought to control it before speaking again.

"What gives you the right to claim this dwelling for your own?" she demanded. "It is still a part of the opera house."

"The fact, my dear Comtesse, that I helped create it. The fact that the world does not want me anywhere except seven feet below the ground, thus I appease them, with the exception that it is seven stories beneath and much more spacious." He laughed cynically at his own comment, though there was nothing funny about it in the least.

"They want you dead because you kill. It is no one's fault but your own," she retorted hotly.

"I kill because they want me dead. Let us clarify something. I do not _murder_. I do not shed innocent blood. I kill. I take away life that seeks to end mine. There is purpose in my folly." He began to tell her of some of the lives he had taken in days past, the reasons for taking those lives, inadvertently acquainting her with his history.

Rosalie sat in stunned silence at his testimonial. It was a life unlike any other, and she knew he spoke truth, for who would make up such detailed stories filled with facts? His taste for blood came upon him at an early age in self-defense against his master. He traveled to the Orient, where his crimes were committed as orders as he served a ruthless Sultana, the fallen bodies too many to count. The shawl wrapped about Rosalie's shoulders tightened in her hand as her heart tugged. To have to resort to killing as a means to survival! It was an insane response to a mad world. She almost pitied him. Almost. He spoke of his return to France, his assistance in building the opera house, his creation of the secret passages. He had meant to live in his home quietly, unmolested, but everyone needs some form of company, he stated, and simple curiosity forced him to move about. His stirrings brought trouble upon him, its end resulting in more deaths. His presence above led them to search for him below, but he was prepared. He had surprises for them. Rosalie understood enough from the word, and did not ask him to elaborate.

"My Philippe could not have wanted you dead," she claimed, with an emphatic shake of her head.

"Though you are intelligent, you do speak in ignorance. Your husband wanted me dead. Perhaps not at that given moment, but soon enough he would have. For you see, he came to aid his brother." Erik reveled in her astonished look.

"Raoul?" Here was a change. Here was something she never would have imagined.

"How many brothers does he have?" he asked teasingly.

Rosalie waved an impatient hand as she tossed her head in annoyance. "Only one. But you know Roaul? And he knows you?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"But how came it that you would kill my husband, and not Raoul?" she asked. Erik laughed at the question.

"Would you have wanted me to?" He relished at the idea. Perhaps had he kept him and Daroga in the chamber without tossing the barrels….

"Enough of your horrid comments!" she cried, pressing a hand to her head. Her mind worked fast, trying to process the overload of information it received. "I want to know why you spared Raoul."

Erik closed his eyes, wondering if he could even say the name of the woman who haunted him every day, and would undoubtedly do so for the rest of his life. When he lifted his lids, he found Rosalie's own gaze staring directly at him. Her intelligent purple orbs displayed a mixture of emotions. She wanted to know, but feared to know. Her inquisitiveness heightened her beauty.

"Believe me, Madame, nothing would have given me more pleasure than to kill the Vicomte, but someone pleaded with me to let him live. That saintly girl even struck a deal with me."

A look of knowing passed between them. Rosalie's eyes watered as she whispered the name.

"_Christine_."

As if a knife had plunged into his heart, Erik released a small grunt. "Yes. The Vicomte was my rival."

Everything began to make perfect sense. Raoul's letter took on new meaning. It was a shame the discovery came too late for her, and even more so for Eustache. Philippe had never spoken of Raoul's rival. He had only spoken of Miss Daae ruining Raoul, but if he had found his brother in peril, he would have put aside all petty differences and come to his aid, even if it meant killing someone. He had served in the military. He knew of combat and defense. He would have had no difficulty overcoming any man. But this was not any man.

And poor Christine, to have to live with the trauma of being the enamor of such a person. No wonder they had wed so suddenly and retired so swiftly to remote lands, to be rarely heard of except when mentioned in passing. No one had believed the tale of the Opera Ghost. He must have bid them to the utmost secrecy, for the mention of him never escaped their lips. What great human restraint they must have shown! She could not have kept such a secret. Realizing that, she began to wonder if he expected the same from her, to remain silent or face certain death.

"You now understand the matter, Comtesse?" Erik asked as he watched her digest the truth.

"Yes," she said quietly. What a tangled mess of lives his story involved. Everyone he knew or met experienced some type of pain or horror at his hands. Raoul had tried to warn her, if he had only told her more. Would it have stopped her? Probably not, she admitted.

The brief mention of Christine had brought Erik much pain. When the sensation began to dull, he replaced it with vindictiveness. Damn this woman, who came to drudge up his past. He would make her pay.

"In sharing so much of myself, I now have a question for you. Have you come to avenge your husband's death?" Erik asked, turning the tide.

"I did," Rosalie admitted. There was no point denying it.

Erik sat back, watching her shift uncomfortably under his gaze. His looks were but the beginning. He would make her sorely uncomfortable. He would torment her a bit as her punishment.

"How? Do you have a knife or gun hidden somewhere in your bodice? Or did you mean to fight with reason? Or conscience? Have you come here to give me a stern reprimand? Lecture me to death, perhaps? Pray tell, what was your plan in subduing me?"

He taunted her again. She could hear it in his manner. She felt it keenly and was humbled believing herself deserving of it. Her recklessness had brought nothing but trouble and pain to them all. What _had_ she meant to do? She no longer knew.

Erik watched her troubled expression, but did not relent. Filled with wickedness, he took advantage of her silence to continue speaking. "You are a loyal wife. I will give you that much. Especially to a man who enjoyed the flirtatious smiles and warm embraces of the dancing girls."

His accusation brought fresh shock upon her. Her eyes hardened as they gazed on him. "You lie," she said with bitterness.

"Do I? Think of it Madame. Your husband frequented the Opera House, rarely inviting you-"

"Because I refused to come," she interrupted, fighting for composure.

"-because he had his eyes on the young pretty dancers. He certainly could not bring his wife along to witness his popularity amongst them. There was one girl in particular that your dearly departed paid very special attention to. If I am not mistaken, her name is Sorelli. She still dances above. Very pretty indeed. I could show her to you if you like."

"My husband was faithful to me. You are nothing more than a malicious liar."

Erik shrugged, enjoying the agonized tone of her voice. "Perhaps he was. I never saw him leaving at too late an hour, but who knows where his heart and thoughts were? How do you know that whenever he took you in his arms he was not thinking of the fair blonde, in her fashionable dancing garb, whose sweet smiles and pretty blushes she reserved for him alone?"

Rosalie sat aghast. An angry, lone tear trickled down her cheek. She looked down at the table and saw the knife she had used to cut the chicken. Its sharp blade looked very tempting. She could almost feel it in her hand.

"Get thee behind me Satan," she mumbled, closing her eyes.

"Are we fighting temptation?" Erik asked, who did not miss a thing. "Do you not know we are all degenerate beings? All cursed with Adam's sin. We are all condemned to hell, if there is such a place. I do not even believe there is a heaven."

His words made her dizzy. She felt demons laughing at her. She was overcome with the presence that surrounded her and tumbled her face into her hands.

Erik continued without mercy. "Do you realize that you, Madame, with your ethical ideals and religious convictions fail in God's one perfect command to love your enemy, to bless those that persecute you?" He made a "tsk" sound. "You wanted to plunge that knife in my throat. I seem to have that effect on people, but nonetheless, you have sinned. Does the Bible not mention that the desire renders one as guilty as the act? Forgive me for I am taking liberty in paraphrasing."

_For that he would ask for forgiveness!_ Rosalie could no longer judge. She felt shame. Shame and anger and confusion and nausea. The dinner was a disaster beyond her imagination.

"But I have found Christians to be the greatest of all sinners, and Christianity the greatest of all myths, with its followers playing the roles of fools and hypocrites," he paused letting his words produce the desired effect.

"How could you say that?" Rosalie finally cried out, goaded into speaking at last. "How could you say any of that?" The tears fell more freely.

"Very easily, Madame. If a righteous man cannot forgive his unrighteous neighbor, how can I believe a sinless deity would pardon the most ruthless of criminals?"

Rosalie had recently wondered the same thing, but her pious teachings rose out and spoke. "For that very reason, because He is perfect in a way we are not. He understands us in a way that transcends our failings. We are weak. We are fallible. We constantly struggle against our carnal desires." Rosalie, indeed, felt very weak at that moment.

Like an animal that smelt the blood of its prey, Erik sensed hers. Smiling sinisterly behind his mask, he leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. "Do you struggle with your flesh?"

"We all do," was Rosalie's prompt, theologically sound answer. However, she avoided his gaze when giving it.

"Yes, humanity does. I am not interested in humanity at this moment. Do you, Comtesse, repress your darkest desires, or are there moments when you allow yourself to be seduced by them, counting on God's endless mercy and limitless forgiveness to cover your blots?"

She did not answer him. She tried to drown out the sound of his voice through meditation, but the darkness prevailed.

Erik sensed her hiding within herself, trying to draw strength as he broke her. He had done it before to many a person, leaving them a pathetic mess as they examined their own filthy souls. He would not spare her. His eyes brightened and he altered his voice ever so slightly as he continued to press the subject.

"What type of sins do you find yourself waging war against? Are they sexual in nature? Do you miss your relations with your husband? Do you long for his warm touch on those cold, lonely nights, creating sensations in your most sensitive areas? Or are you selfishly relieved at his demise for it now offers you the opportunity to fantasize freely about other men? Alas, another sin."

Rosalie let out a horrified gasp. This was the devil himself speaking to her. She needed to end this with one swift word, with one firm rebuke. She needed to resist the devil and flee, but she did neither. She stood her ground and prepared herself for attack.

"There is that gentlemen friend of yours, Eustache I believe you called him. He would be glad to fill your husband's place, provided he can still function after the knock I gave him. Or perhaps he will come out of all this and be so gladdened at his second chance, he will have the courage to tell you how he lusted for you every night. You can then have each other in an open frenzy and cease touching yourselves in the cover of darkness."

Rosalie's piercing shriek of indignation filled the room. She stood swiftly - so swiftly she toppled the chair behind her. She grabbed the knife near her plate and slammed it angrily into the wood. Trembling in rage from head to toe, she caught his mocking eyes and spat out,

"What do you know about love? What do you know of the purity and sanction that exists in the union of body and soul? You know nothing! You are a horrible, despicable being! You do not value life! You do not value anything of merit! You scorn and mock with ease because you cannot have! You hate because you cannot love, not really, not truly! How can you speak of longing and touch and desire when you yourself have yet to bed a woman!"

A moment of silence followed her speech. Rosalie trembled more at her own daring.

"Why would you make such a claim?" Erik asked, his voice unusually even. Rosalie was not deceived. It was the low roar of a lion.

"Because…" she began weakly, and realized she could no longer continue the conversation. She had spoken out in a fit of passion, but the frenzy gone, she was left powerless.

"Because of my hidden visage? Because of my monstrous features, you have yet to see? You have come to an awareness that I hide something sinister under here. You have no idea, Madame, but of this, I can assure you. I can safely tell you, Comtesse, one does not need a face to satisfy the burning of the loins."

_Do not respond. Do not respond_. She responded. Hoping to pierce his wicked heart she said, "Christine was right to choose Raoul. He is more the man than you shall ever be."

Her comment succeeded in injuring. She saw him start at the remark, unaware his pain brought more anger. He seethed inside. "Shall we prove your theory? My mask does not inhibit any of my male functions. I would be more than happy to demonstrate."

Rosalie, who had grabbed the table to support herself, suddenly stood erect. "I have had enough of you for one night," she countered bravely, ready to tell the demon to return to his nether regions.

"Before this night is over, I could have all of you," was the answer her rebuke met with.

Rosalie stood on a dangerous edge. If not careful, she could plunge headfirst into the precipice. Her only defense was the words he had told her. "You said you did not force yourself upon women."

"That you choose to believe? Did you not call me a liar but moments ago?"

"You are a liar, but not a rapist." Her voice trembled terribly as she spoke those words.

"Not yet, anyhow," he said coolly, standing quickly from his seat. With two long strides he reached her, yanking the shawl from her neck, grabbing her by the waist. Erik watched her bosom rise and fall as she gasped for breath. He pressed her near him and leaning into her ear whispered in his most seductive voice,

"I will be everything your husband was not."

Rosalie felt her rage renew. Her hand instinctively flew to strike him. If the mask fell off, so much the better, but she was not quick enough. Before her hand even neared his face, Erik had caught hold of the small wrist. The Comtesse lost all sense of self-control. She despised him as she had never despised anyone else in her life. Remembering the knife, she turned towards the table and lunged for the sharpened blade, its point grounded firmly into the table. She yanked it out with one quick motion and swung it in her captor's direction, managing to tear the arm of his waistcoat. Erik, momentarily surprised by the viciousness of the attack, soon overpowered her. He grabbed hold of her wildly swinging arm, twisting it until she let out a cry and dropped the knife. He then pushed her face down against the table. The shawl still in his hands, he used it to bind hers together. Once secured, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her off.

Rosalie fell into a state of panicked shock. Hoisted onto his back with her head hanging down, she saw everything in a blur. She heard him open a door and enter another room. Straining to lift her head, she felt as if she had entered another world as she surveyed the new surroundings. Everything was draped in black. She did not have long to study, for she soon felt herself flung down on what she assumed was a bed until she saw the sides of it. _She was in a coffin!_ Was it meant for her?

"Welcome to my bed chamber and to my bed. You should feel honored for you are the first woman to lie here. I am sorry it is not grander, but a woman with such fiery passion will not mind the tightness of the space. It may grant more pleasure," Erik said naughtily. His eyes slowly wandered about the wildly trembling woman. "There are many garments to remove. Where shall I begin?"

Rosalie felt her skirt slide up. She had underestimated him. She had pushed him to his limit. She was going to be raped and murdered in that box that reeked of death. Afterwards, he would perhaps sink it in the lake. No one would ever find her.

Believing these were her final moments on Earth, she began to recite the Hail Mary. She needed God's full pardon before crossing into the afterlife.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee…"

Erik removed her shoes. She tried to ignore the hard clank as they clattered to the floor.

"…blessed are thou amongst w-women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, J-J-Jesus…" She could barely speak. Her teeth rattled violently.

Erik removed her stockings, letting his bitter cold hands skim past her jerking legs. Her voice rose beyond her own recognition.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death."

His hands pressed her waist, passing her ribcage, pausing just below her bosom.

"Father God, help me!" she shrieked. Anguished tears dripped down the sides of her face.

Erik seeing her hysterical expression, hearing the pathetic cries from her voice, ceased his merciless assault. He leaned over and said, "God has not heard your prayer, but I will. This was a warning, Comtesse. Do not tempt me ever again. Unlike you, I have no moral convictions." He then pulled himself upright and closed the lid of the coffin, leaving her locked inside.

Erik fled the vicinity, out from the depths, out from his grave, out to the rooftop, to the night sky. He stood in his usual haunt, which he reserved to look up into the stars and curse God and all of His creation, himself included.

That woman! That infernal woman! What did she mean by spouting words of justice as if common law applied to them both? Did she not know that there was no justice? There was no peace! There was no God, though he continually argued with him.

Erik flung his mask off to one side and wept for several minutes, her angry words replaying in his head. She was right. He did not know what it was to be loved in turn. He did not know what it was to touch a woman and have the hand turn on him in love and esteem. His monstrosity kept them away. It would forever keep them away. Christine had chosen the better path.

He had meant to get rid of her that very night. He meant to terrify her into silent submission and return her to the world above. But she was not easily submissible. She was strong. She was independent. She was passionate. She was wild. Had she not tried to kill him? In disposition, she was something similar to him.

He had meant to set her free, but found himself ensnared by her, and despite his better judgment, was intrigued. He wanted to learn more about her. He would keep her longer, just a little longer. For as angry as she made him, she satisfied his need for company, such as it was.


	12. Part 8 Morning's Revelation

Part 8 A Morning's Revelation

The night passed in one long, dark stretch. For Rosalie, it seemed endless. She spent the entirety of it trying to devise a way out of the box. She would have had a better chance were her hands not tied behind her back. She spent countless hours trying to set them free, but the constant tugging and twisting of her wrists against the shawl's fabric only succeeded in irritating her skin.

Lying inside the coffin proved much too difficult to ignore. She lay in death's very presence, its cold touch all around her, and she continually trembled as she looked about her confines, but she shuddered more at the man's madness. He was beyond insane. He was evil incarnate, and she was at his mercy. Her mind replayed his words about her husband. Rosalie had always trusted Philippe implicitly, never questioning his whereabouts or his motives - until that moment. Was it possible what That Man had said was true? She let out a frustrated sigh, angrier with herself than at him. She had allowed him to create doubt, something she had never felt before in her marriage. It cut her to her heart's core, and afflicted her deeply. Adding to her anxiety was her failed attempt at murder, uncertain if she was disappointed or relieved that he had thwarted her. She had never believed herself capable of such fury. It seemed an out of body experience, a possession. Malignant forces were at work, and she readily succumbed to them. Escape was now a necessity. She had to flee the madhouse before he poisoned her. "Fear him who is able to destroy both body and soul into hell." The man appeared capable of doing both.

She thought of several alternatives in her quest for freedom. Impossible she could not match her strength with his for that would prove useless; to argue with him pointless - he could not be reasoned with.

_The mask!_ What he concealed behind the mask was his weakness. She would start from there.

Erik entered his room, careful not to make a sound. His coffin lid remained closed; he trusted the Comtesse inside, but she was as still as death itself. He hoped that fear had not caused her heart to fail, but he thought it unlikely. Her mind was too strong to be overcome in such a manner. It was possible she lay in wait, listening for him in turn.

Feeling she had had enough, Erik opened the lid and found her asleep. He thought it strange that anyone could find rest in his bed, it eluded him so often, but he rationalized that she had tired herself from the struggle. Looking downward at her, he felt remorseful. How could he have made her spend the night in such terrifying confines? He resolved to have better control of himself before their battles turned tragic. He lifted her from the coffin, and took her to her room.

Gently placing her on the bed, Erik turned her to her side and loosened the ties. He massaged the red, bruised wrists, aiding the circulation of blood to flow freely through them.

Those few seconds were all Rosalie needed. Her eyes flew open, and pulling her hands away from his gentle caress, she reached for the bed lamp. Grabbing it, she brought it down full force on her captor's head. In his moment of dazed confusion, she sat up and reached for his mask, ripping it from his face, flinging it to the opposite end of the room.

Though temptation was great, Rosalie did not look. Instead, she sprang for the door, which he had left wide open. Her plan was not to see him; her mind bent solely on one purpose: to escape. She had no inclination as to where she was headed, and what lay beyond the simple rooms was a mystery. Though she suspected his dwelling was virtually inescapable, it was a gamble she willfully took, even if it cost her her life.

She sensed his face was his shame, the beginning of his woes, and she expected that when she removed the mask, he would hide from her. She had counted on that reaction to give her a few, precious seconds to take flight. Never had she been more gravely mistaken. Rosalie had only managed one foot out the door when she felt her head jerk back. The sudden tug at her scalp made her lose her balance and stumble, producing tears to her eyes. Without hesitation, Erik had gone after the fleeing Comtesse. Despite his promise to be gentle, he was anything but. He grabbed the first thing his hand could get a hold of which was her long hair, and dragged her back into the room. He felt her body squirm and writhe against his hold, but he did not care. Compassion gone, he replaced it with blind fury. He had reached his limit with this woman, and could not answer for the consequences.

Rosalie tried to anchor her bare feet into the floor, but they only slipped and slid against the wooden panels. She dug her nails down into the flesh of his hands, but it had no effect. She was about to grab hold of the bed itself, and pull in the other direction not caring if her hair was yanked out from its roots, when she felt him suddenly release her. Her body dropped back causing her head to strike the floor with great force, and at that point everything slowed down.

The Comtesse saw the dark shoes near her, each step reverberating loudly in her ears. She felt the hand reach down to pull her up. The grip was painful, but she did not cry out. As her body lifted, so did her eyes. They continued their ascent until they fixed themselves on a visage unlike any other. Before she could react, her body jerked towards a wall, and she felt a cloth knotted tightly over her eyes. Keeping her in that manner, Erik pressed himself against her form so she stood between him and the wall. The style and manner in which he positioned her was similar to that of an execution. Her legs gave out, and had he not held her, she would have crumpled to the floor.

Erik's vow broken in haste, his anger beyond the means of his control, he felt he would kill her. He had never killed a woman before, but she would be the exception. "You will not swoon now, Madame!" he seethed angrily, shoving her back into the wall. "Stupid woman with your stupid plans, I meant you no harm! Now you will know pain!" he threatened, enraged.

Rosalie should have shuddered at his words, but the brief image she had seen rendered her useless. She could not think; she could not speak. Though blindfolded, her mind clearly saw the emaciated face. One that appeared to be held together by rotted flesh and misshapen bone. The eyes had been as yellow as ever, but the sockets were so far back, they seemed to float from within. He had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair on his head, and almost no nose. Rosalie believed herself in hell, for that face could not have belonged to the living.

Erik had not thought it possible, but her silence angered him more. Trying to elicit some type of reaction from her, he continued his threats. "Comtesse, I could end it all here and now. I could crush your windpipe, or I could just as easily snap your neck. Do not provoke me."

Still she did not answer, trying to come to terms with reality. The pictures in the book were not comparable. Dear God, what a face! In that brief second she had seen it all, and never wanted to see again.

He tried one final attempt to rouse her. Grabbing the back of her dress, he pulled at it, sending an endless spray of buttons about the room. The layers of petticoats followed, and the Comtesse was soon left in nothing more than her chemise and corset, and of the latter, he soon relieved her. Rosalie inhaled sharply, and much too easily. She felt the chilled air run through her body; she became alert to her surroundings, aware that only a thin layer of cloth stood between him and her naked form.

"Monsieur," she called softly, not fully recovered from the first shock as she entered the second.

"Heed me carefully," he hissed into her ear, "I place before you an analogy. Your thin garment is all that stands between you and your virtue. My mask stands between the world and I. You would not like to expose yourself to humanity in such fashion. You would not like to have every eye gaze upon your most secret and intimate areas, for therein lies perversion. My face is my perversion. I would sooner allow the world to view my privates, before my face is made a spectacle of. My mask is my most protective clothing, shielding me from the hate and judgment above. Unless you want to petition your own death, you will never touch it again." He paused, thinking of the last time his mask had been removed at the hands of a woman. "However, I know human nature. I know the curiosity that eats away at a person. You may want to know if you truly did see a face such as mine. I will give you but one more opportunity to view," he declared, pulling off her blindfold as he whipped her towards him. He expected the horrified scream or the fainting fit, but the woman kept her eyes closed tightly. He roughly grabbed her hands and placed them on either side of his face. Rosalie whimpered at the mere feel of it. It felt cold, coarse, and skeletal. She tried to pull her hands back, but Erik held them firmly.

"You women are all alike. You believe your own beauty renders you above the law. You do not respect a man's privacy, believing your sex alone will save you." His beautiful voice was terribly pained. "Christine did the same. Both of you, nay, all of you are no more than prying Pandoras. You want to look into the box, then refuse to deal with the consequences."

Rosalie stopped her struggling. She heard his last words clearly. Christine had seen him. Christine had viewed that horribly deformed face. And this man had to live with the shame that the only woman he ever loved had seen his monstrosity. She was torn. It was in her nature to study, to learn, and to grow, but she did not want to look upon him again. It was too terrifying, and it had already weakened her resolve against him. She did not want to pity him. She wanted to hate him. He was her adversary.

"Damn it woman! Open your eyes!" Erik yelled and gave her a violent shake. Never had he been so frustrated in his life. She did the exact opposite of everything he told her to do. He considered telling her to keep them closed. Rosalie, instead managed to tear her hands away, and buried her face into his chest. She began to cry.

"Monsieur, no! No! I do not wish to see! I did not mean to see! I am sorry for your life, and for your pain, but I had nothing to do with it! Neither did Philippe! I just want to go home! If you had any compassion in your soul, you would cease whatever interest it is you have in me, and let me be! Please, Monsieur…." She wept harder.

Erik did not reply, and he allowed her to weep openly on him for several more minutes. The longer she cried the clearer it became she did not weep for him. She wept for herself, for the horror of what she had witnessed, for he was horrifying, both inside and out. He had allowed his soul to resemble his ruined face, twisted and deformed. His anger melted, but his cold sentiments returned.

"Well, Comtesse, if such be the case, your wish is denied. Your quick mind has worked against you. Get used to your surroundings, for they are now your home. Become accustomed to me, for I will be your sole companion. If I am to die down here, I promise you will die with me, for you will never return to the light of day. Now, dress yourself!" With that, he abruptly pushed away from her, picking up his mask before fleeing the room. She heard the door slam and lock.

Rosalie slunk to the floor, sobbing hysterically, her strength wasted. She was a terrible, terrible woman, never having known herself until that moment. She who had prided herself to having such an open mind, to being a philosopher, a great thinker, she was as shallow and judgmental as her contemporaries. All her religious upbringing, all of her teachings -- in vain had she learned them! God had put her to the test, and she failed wretchedly! And her punishment was such, to die with an unlovable, miserable man, whose malformed features could be no worse than the sin that entangled her own heart. She wept long and hard, for minutes, for hours. She continued crying, until her cries turned to gasps, her gasps to coughs, her coughs to gags. Feeling the nausea rise to her throat, she reached for her bedpan and ran into the bathroom, where she threw up countless times.


	13. Part 9 Searching Northward

Part 9 Searching Northward

Le Commissaire had to conduct a second investigation to find the whereabouts of the Vicomte and his lovely young wife. It was not an easy feat. He questioned everyone in the small village. The simple, quiet people of the town had the same response: "We know of them, but we do not know where they are at." After questioning the fiftieth person, he went to an inn, feeling he would have to request a room for the night. It was past four in the afternoon, and the next train left in an hour. He refused to leave the town without having seen the pair. They had to be somewhere. He also wanted to uncover the reason for their hiding. For a man who denied being involved in his brother's death, the Vicomte certainly behaved in a guilty manner.

The darkened inn produced an unpleasant aroma -- a combination of whiskey and cigar smoke and body odor. Le Commissaire took himself to the bar to mull over his situation. While sitting in the unsteady stool, he noticed a young man watching him. He had to be in his late teens, clean-shaven, with dark hair and worn clothes. The young lad steadily gazed at the older gentleman, a slight smile on his whimsical features. When he caught Le Commissaire's eye, he gave him a slight nod, and moved away.

Le Commissaire was up in a moment, following him. "_Excusez-moi_, but I would like to ask you a question."

"And you are?" the boy asked, a coy tone in his voice.

The older man flashed him hard a hardened look. "I am _Le __Commissaire de Paris_, but why do I believe you already know that?"

"People tell tales," was the young lad's simple answer. He tried to sound bored and careless, but there was a gleam of interest in his eyes.

"Yes. That is a very accurate statement. Would it suffice that the tales led to answers," Le Commissaire said, scratching his three-day beard.

The lad smiled. "Maybe you are not asking the right questions to the right people."

"Listen boy, I am much older than you, and tired. When I am tired, I get very irritable. I am not in the mood for your mysteries. Do you have something to tell me?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Now what makes you think that?" he asked lazily.

Le Commissaire strangled the curse that rose from his throat. He had received stern reprimands in the past for his unprofessional behavior. He tried to maintain his composure, but the boy was pushing his luck. Lowering his voice, he asked,

"Do you know where I can find the Vicomte?"

The boy responded in a voice that matched Le Commissaire's. "Perhaps." He looked down, and Le Commissaire's eyes traveled with his. He saw that the boy had his hand extended. He would give his answer for a price.

"I do not give into bribes. You do know that is illegal. I could have you arrested for withholding information."

"_Oui_, but do you really want to go through all the trouble of arresting me and starting paper work? I do not think you want to waste time in such a manner, especially when a woman's life is at stake." He stared hard at Le Commissaire, watching his reaction intently.

Le Commissaire glared fiercely at the young man. "Vermin! If you know about the Comtesse, why would you not volunteer any information?"

"I know the same as you – that she has disappeared. Seems you have quite the mystery in Paris these days."

_To hell with proper etiquette_. Le Commissaire became incensed and grabbed the young man by his collar, pushing him against the wall.

"Because a woman's life is at stake here, you will speak, and for no other reason. I will not hold myself culpable and stoop to your level. If you continue with your games, you will be held accountable, I promise you that."

The young man looked somewhat ashamed, but he was not afraid. He was accustomed to soliciting for money in the streets. Everyone in the small village knew him and his behavior, but he had obviously tangled with the wrong person.

"Forgive me, Le Commissaire. I meant no disrespect. I need to feed a family," he said, trying to play on the man's sympathy.

Le Commissaire had none for him. Instead he looked at him in disgust, and tightened his hold around the boy's collar. "Spare me. I have heard these pathetic stories before, and I know your type. I do not care two francs about your family, if one even exists. Just tell me once and for all, do you know where the Vicomte is?"

And so it happened that the young man did, and forty minutes later Le Commissaire found himself standing at the door of a recluse manor, hidden away by tall trees and a high fence, past hills and mountains, and miles away from any other soul. The Vicomte and his wife had picked their spot perfectly.

The de Chagney's kept only one maid who showed Le Commissaire inside. As he sat in the warm drawing room, he felt cheered a bit. The home was charming. The particular room he waited in had oak wood floors, a cathedral ceiling, and a French mantelpiece. A splendid fire set the room aglow. The seats were adorned with doilies and knitted pillowcases; the house filled with love and comfort. It was very different from the Comtesse's mansion, which cast off cold and lonely feelings. Le Commissaire would not have minded in the least, were he invited to spend the night in the cozy chateau, though he highly doubted that would happen.

Having been informed that the Vicomte was not home, he sat in wait of la Vicomtesse. He was offered a drink, which he readily accepted, and waited a few more minutes.

The lovely Madame de Chagny came at last. He saw why she had tarried, for she was with child - at least four months along, her belly just beginning to protrude. The blissful signs of motherhood showed on her face, though concern clouded them at his presence. He sighed. Such was the reaction he always received - no one ever glad to see him.

"_Bonjour Monsieur Le __Commissaire_. I am sorry, but my husband is not here. May I be of assistance?" Christine asked, seating herself down after they had shaken hands.

"Vicomtesse, I hate to trouble you in this manner. I see you are expecting, and hate to bring unpleasant news, but I am afraid I have no alternative. I am a blunt man and time is against us." He paused long enough to pull out his notepad and pencil before beginning. "Are you in any way aware of the Comtesse's disappearance?"

"Disappearance?" Christine echoed, as she sucked in the air, her hands tightly gripping the arms of the chair.

"Yes. She went to the Opera Garnier but a week ago, and no one has seen her since. The gentleman she was with, Monsieur Eustache Rousseau, was attacked and found in the graveyard."

Christine could barely breathe. Her head began to swim and tears filled her eyes. "Is he alive?" she asked, in a shaky voice.

"Barely. He has been in a coma for the same amount of time. No one knows if he will recover."

The tears perched in Christine's eyes began to fall. Oh, she knew, she knew who was behind all of this, but she could not speak even if she wanted to. She would not betray him again. Le Commissaire handed her a handkerchief, keeping a steady gaze on the woman's reactions. He saw her dab her eyes, take in several breaths, and rise from her seat. She turned her back on him.

"Monsieur Commissaire, I cannot help you with this." Christine answered when she felt steady enough to give a reply.

"Can you not?" he asked suspiciously, rising from his seat as well. He walked over to face her. "Well, perhaps you can resolve an older case. What happened the night of your disappearance?"

"I…" Christine began, her brain frantically seeking a pretext. She dreaded recalling that horrible day, though she repeatedly relived it.

"Did you meet up with the Comte de Chagny?" Le Commissaire pressed.

"No," she answered truthfully, her brow furrowing in confusion. What did that have to do with Rosalie?

"He was against your relationship with the Vicomte," he charged at her. It was unfair, but he wanted to uncover the truth.

"I, I knew nothing of it," she cried, lying again. Of course she knew. It was all anyone spoke of after his death. It was the reason everyone gave when claiming Raoul's hand in his brother's demise.

"Did you not? Where did you end up after the lights came back on?"

"I, I had gone below the Opera House."

"_Below_ the Opera House?" he asked with interest. This was leading somewhere.

"Y-yes," she stammered. "I had to go meet with Raoul."

"Poor professional practice to leave in the middle of a performance. But if such was the case, why did the Vicomte go searching for you? You were nowhere to be found."

Christine swallowed hard. "I got lost," she lied. "He had told me to meet him in a secret place after the performance. Something frightened me, and I felt the urge to fly at that moment. He was waiting for me there, but I took a wrong turn, and became lost. I was disoriented. You see, Raoul was a jealous lover. We had quarreled the day before about my receiving unwanted attention from a certain gentleman."

"Who was the gentleman?" he asked, pouncing on her words.

"Just-some-man," she chocked out, the mounting lies filling her with guilt. "I wanted to prove to Raoul that I loved him more than my career, so I agreed to fly with him at once. During the performance, I could not wait. I took advantage of the darkness to leave."

"You forwent your career?" Le Commissaire asked, not believing a word of the story.

"Yes. My career meant nothing to me. Raoul meant everything. He was waiting for me outside. I got lost," she repeated. "The opera house is quite large."

"So I have heard," Le Commissaire said, putting away his pencil and notepad in his breast pocket. "One more question. What do you know of the Opera Ghost?" He gave her a hard look. If there had been better lighting in the room, he would have sworn that she paled.

Christine did her best to manufacture a smile and said, "Monsieur Le Commissaire, are you not a little too old to believe in ghost stories?"

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Christine paced nervously about the room, continuously glancing at the clock. Her golden locks, always so carefully arranged, were in complete disorder, so many times had she grabbed at them. Her face was tear ridden, the muscles in them twitched. Her hands shook violently. She massaged her belly in an attempt to soothe herself, but her mind would not rest. She glanced at the clock again. When would Raoul arrive? She did not know how much longer she could stand the wait.

After what seemed like hours, the Vicomte finally did arrive. Christine usually waited for him to dine and relax before presenting him with any news, but the present issue could not be delayed. As soon as he entered the house, Christine grabbed him by his arm and pulled him into the drawing room, sending the servant away.

"Darling, what is the matter?" Raoul asked, alarmed. "You are positively trembling!" He viewed his wife's wide eyes and apprehensive air. "What has happened to trouble you so? Tell me, and relieve your spirits. Remember you must always try to remain calm for the baby's sake. You cannot take nervous fits," he gently chided her.

Christine clutched Raoul's arm, wondering how to break the news. Finding no delicate way to state the dilemma, she blurted, "Your sister-in-law went to the Opera House."

Raoul's face grew serious. He had always known Rosalie had a stubborn disposition. Sensing there was more to the tale, he waited, his patience quickly rewarded.

"She's gone missing! Le Commissaire was here. He is conducting an investigation into her disappearance and her partner's attack."

"Her partner? Rosalie has a partner?" Raoul asked in confusion. It certainly hadn't taken her very long to replace his brother.

"Not in the sense you are thinking of," Christine said impatiently, unable to believe his shortsightedness. "I speak of the man who escorted her to the Opera House. You know him. Eustache Rousseau."

"Eusatache Rou- Eustache? Yes," Raoul said, remembering the man. "He was a good friend of Philippe's. He was like a brother to him. I believed he loved him more than he did me," he could not help but add in bitterness. A sharp pang tugged at Raoul's heart when he spoke of Philippe. Their final exchanges had been in anger. He felt he was to blame for his brother's death, and at times wished they could trade places. It was difficult enough living with a ruined reputation, but his own conscience plagued him night and day. He had not honored his brother in death, having yet to visit his grave. Angry thoughts crept inside of him, and he felt himself hardening to his sister-in-law's plight.

"I am sorry, Christine, but I warned Rosalie to stay away from the opera house. If something has happened to her, there is not a thing that to be done about it. Let the police deal with it, and pray that all turns out well."

Christine stared at Raoul, shocked. "You cannot mean that," she cried.

"I do," he said stubbornly. "I am not in the mood to discuss the matter further." He turned, and made a motion to leave the room.

"Well, I am," she said, stepping in front of him. "I think it is wrong for you to turn your back on your sister, even if she did not listen to your advice. We do not always do what people want us to, Raoul. You know that," she said pointedly.

Raoul moved his gaze past her, knowing she referred to Philippe's advice to him concerning Christine.

"She needs our help," she added.

"Our help? Christine, you cannot seriously be considering aiding in this situation. _He_ is as good as dead to us."

"No. Not yet," she whispered, her eyes turning downwards, thinking of the gold band tucked away between the sheets.

Raoul looked at his beloved wife, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his. Her blue orbs were a storm of emotions. He reached over and embraced her.

"Christine, my love, I know what you are thinking. I know your good heart. But we cannot go back down there. You cannot."

Christine's lips trembled, but she made no response.

"Yes, he freed us, but what is to say he would be so kind a second time? He is in essence a madman, volatile and passionate, one not to be trusted."

"What of Rosalie?" she asked, fresh tears forming in her eyes.

Raoul pressed Christine's shoulder gently, a troubled sigh escaping him. "We are soon to be a family. We must protect our own interests."

"Perhaps if I spoke to him-"

"No," Raoul said warmly and a little too loudly. "I forbid it. You are my wife and I am the head of this household. You are not to disobey my wishes." Softening his tone, he added, "We do not even know if she is still alive."

"She is Raoul! She is! He would not bring himself to kill her. The fact that they have not found her body is an encouraging sign."

"I suppose," Raoul slowly admitted. "Even so, we will allow the police to continue in their investigation, without our interference. They may have success in finding her."

Christine shook her head gravely. "You know as I do, there is small chance of that."

Raoul let go of his wife and moved a few steps back. Looking into the fire, he contemplated for several minutes. "Why would Le Commissaire come here?" he thought aloud. "He did not believe me when I first mentioned The Phantom to him."

"His name is Erik," Christine declared in a reverent tone. Raoul looked quickly at her, witnessing her reddened features. It angered him.

"How can I forget? Fine. He did not believe me when I told him of your Erik." He then turned his back on his wife.

Christine instantly wrapped her arms about him. "Dearest, he is not my Erik, thank God. I merely state that is his name. Please, let us not quarrel over this. I love you. I chose you."

"He will always stand between us. In some form or another," Raoul said in a terrible fit of unwarranted jealousy.

Christine, troubled by his attitude and wanting to change the subject, quickly asked, "You will speak to Le Commissaire, oui?"

"I will," Raoul conceded, but still annoyed.

"What will you say to him?" Christine wondered. The fibs she had told still tingled on her lips. "We are both bound to secrecy, and our lies certainly will not help Rosalie."

Raoul offered no response, only to return his stare to the fire. He thought of that night in the Torture Chamber, almost baked and then drowned, all at the hands of the elusive Phantom. He had thought himself fortunate to escape with his life. What was Rosalie suffering at his hands? What would await them all if they began this search? Would they ever be free of the Ghost?


	14. Part 10: A Strange Pas de Deux

Part 10 A Strange Pas de Deux

Since the last physical altercation between the two inmates, the Lair had become deathly quiet. Not trusting his guest, Erik treaded about his home with greater caution. The Comtesse was a wily, unpredictable woman. It was difficult to anticipate when the next attack would occur. Whenever in the same room, Erik maintained his guard, keeping an alert eye for any weapon that might fly his way. But all precautions proved a needless worry, for the Lady altered dramatically in her behavior. She had become a ghost of her former self, moving aimlessly from the bedroom to the drawing room to the kitchen in a catatonic-like state.

Uncertain of how the Comtesse would treat him after the de-masking, Erik prepared himself for the worst. He had listened to her anguished cries and heard the coughs, knowing what followed. He recalled Christine's reactions. She had been terror-stricken. Her limpid, blue eyes turned into saucers, her voice shrilled with fear. That type of reaction, he was accustomed to. Erik should have been suspicious when the girl's demeanor changed. She had smiled at him, caught his eye, sang with him -- pretended everything was as it should be. He had foolishly believed her – for his love made him desperate - and she had betrayed him. The Comtesse's after effects were of a very different nature. Visible in her every lineament, she made no effort to conceal her shock. Her features lost some of their luster. Pale faced and haunted, she no longer bothered to groom herself. Her dark tresses hung loose, and she remained clothed only in her night robe, an apathetic spirit constraining her form. It was all due to Erik's hideous visage, or so he thought.

The Comtesse willfully maintained her state of despondency and withdrawal. No longer trusting herself, she feared to speak to her captor. The Man brought out the worst in her, causing her to sin more times than she could count. Even in her sleep she was certain she caused offense, and there was no priest to confess to. The weight of her guilt and shame also weighed heavily upon her. She would gladly have crawled under a rock, never more to leave it.

Erik reveled in the stillness and silence the first few days. It gave him time to compose himself until he felt his emotions again in check, but as the week neared its end, he tired of the silence and grew restless. It was having two of him around. The Comtesse even began taking noiseless steps. He was no longer certain why he had brought her down there in the first place, everything having gotten so out of hand, but it certainly was not to have her emulate him! He decided to break her out of her melancholy state, her self-imposed cocoon, and the room, where she spent countless hours.

He put his plan into action during dinner, taking advantage of her silence to tell her more stories of his past. Erik had a gift for story telling, using his melodic voice to charge the atmosphere and feeling of the tale. He did his best not to share any sorrowful accounts. Instead, he told her of his lighter memories - of sunsets in Persia and the language spoken by the Shah. He told her of the magnificent structure of the palace, and the beauty possessed by the harem girls.

Rosalie tried to appear disinterested in his tales, but her intelligent mind could not reject the wealth of information it received, and in spite of herself, she felt her eyes twitch with interest. It was all Erik needed to see, and he spoke with even greater warmth and flow of feeling.

After another half hour, he tired of rambling, and wanting to hear something from her began a more vicious form of devilry, taking a snide at her friend.

"I read of Monsieur Rousseau's condition today. He is still bed-ridden. The poor dupe hasn't even the fortitude to pull himself out of a coma," was his heartless remark. He sat back and watched her interestedly.

It did the trick. The purple eyes instantly lifted to his angrily. They lowered but a second later. The fire stoked, Erik would not let the matter go.

"What is the matter, dear Comtesse? You do not care for the conversation?" he joked.

Rosalie turned her head away, but not before Erik heard her mumble, "I do not care for the company."

Erik released a small chuckle, relieved to have seen a flash of the Comtesse's former self. She was still in there, he only had to give the necessary push to get her out. Erik's games and amusements never having been conventional, he was vastly entertained. He liked the turn of her countenance, was fascinated by the hardness in her jaw, and was amazed by the darkness in her eyes. The more Erik studied her the more convinced he became that they were not so very different. If life had dealt more kindly with him, if circumstances were altered, he sensed he could be this woman's equal.

Not willing to give up just yet, he asked her a more private question, one certain to rile her to ire. "Why do you not have children? It seems to me a woman who enjoyed such matrimonial bliss would have readily produced an heir or two by now."

Rosalie had been nibbling absentmindedly on a roll. The bread was soft and moist, very easy to chew. She suddenly found it tough and difficult to swallow. She began to cough, and gulped down half a glass of water. Once her face returned to its normal color, she stared at him, wondering what game he played, as he patiently waited for her response. She did not want to answer him. She was trying to be a better person, and he seemed determined to send her straight to hell. As he never withdrew his eyes from her, she felt compelled to give him an answer.

"That is none of your business," she stated frankly. She might have to stay with him, but damn it if she answered such impudent inquiries!

"It is a simple question," he said in a mocked, hurt voice.

"To which you are not privy for information."

Erik smiled. If he wanted the answer, he could obtain it. He had his ways, but as the matter stood, he would rather she tell him. It was more fun that way.

Rosalie turned her head from him, knowing he still watched her. What was he up to? What did he want? She had reconciled herself to life imprisonment with him, was that not enough? Did he want her to end up as insane as he was? Had this been his plan all along, to drag her down there and fill her with nonsensical stories, until that was all her mind was full of? When she would be of no more use to him, he would let her go except she would be so crazy no one would listen to anything she had to say. Shunned from society, shut away in her mansion with only Miriette to take care of her, she would be forgotten. He wanted to make a recluse out of her. He wanted her to live as he lived, alone, unloved. She had figured it all out. She turned to him, and found his electric eyes burning right through her. Finding it impossible to sit calmly under his penetrative stare, she threw down her napkin and abruptly left the table. She would not allow her mind to yield to his games, but he was up in an instant, following her.

"Madame Comtesse, it _is_ my concern. We are living together now. You should not hide any secrets from me," he said wickedly.

Rosalie covered her ears, not turning to face him. "Do be quiet," she pleaded.

"Though you, with all your intelligence, have already discovered my lack of experience in relations, I am yet fascinated by the subject. Were there difficulties in production?"

The lady spun around quickly, her hair practically whipping at him, her face turning nearly as purple as her eyes, and he realized he had hit the heart of the matter. She shrieked, "You detestable man! You are driving me mad! Is this the penalty for pulling off your mask? Why didn't you snap my neck as promised? It would have been more merciful!"

Erik laughed, delighted. He recognized the woman that stood before him. Gone was the pale, sorrowful look, replaced with flashing eyes, bright cheeks, and trembling lips. She was lightning once more. He was pleased with the transformation and himself for bringing it about. Deciding to provide a change of entertainment, he neared her. Rosalie's breath quickened. She never knew what he was about.

"Come," he said simply, extending his hand.

Rosalie stared at the long, pale fingers patiently waiting to receive hers. They appeared so graceful and masterful. Was it possible he had used them to strike her? She hesitated to touch them, but the hand never wavered. His gentle tone seemed to dull her senses, and her reason turned against her. If taking his hand would cease the topic of barrenness, then she would do it. She reached out slowly, until the tips of her fingers grazed his. He somehow managed to grab the rest of her hand, and began to walk, leading her.

"I would like to show you the rest of the dwelling," he said in his kindest tone. His voice was overwhelming when he spoke in that manner. It was soothing, like the gentle caress of a breeze.

"I have already seen your bed chamber," she said, shuddering slightly at the recollection.

Again, he laughed, his mood jovial. It could not be blamed on wine, as he taken no drink. Rather, he seemed to be in a disposition to cheer. Rosalie had not seen this side of him. Perhaps her surroundings were affecting her, but he appeared pleasant. _Nay, it is all an appearance_, she thought. _More treachery, more tricks_. Guarding herself, she tried to conjure her anger, but as he remained affable and gentlemanlike, she could not resume her original ire.

"You have seen the bed," he corrected her. "I do not believe you have studied the rest of the dwelling," and he decidedly led her in that direction.

Rosalie hovered at the door, finding it difficult to enter. She saw the open coffin with the canopy hanging above it, and was immediately disturbed, but when Erik opened the door wider, she caught a glimpse of the wall. A keyboard covered its entire expanse. There was a pipe organ, majestic and grand, unlike any other she had seen before. Never taking her eyes off it, she approached unaware she had entered the room.

"You play?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise. It seemed ironic that his murdering hands could create melody.

"Amongst my other talents," Erik said quietly. Not wishing to continue the conversation of his genius, he led her out. He was still uncertain why he had shown her the organ. Rosalie sensed as much, and refrained from asking him any more questions, though he deserved a bit of his own medicine. Still, she tried to be the more principled of the two.

They walked until they arrived at the edge of the lake. Though she had heard of the underground water, she had never seen it before. She noticed the gondola, and realized the lake was her means of escape. How her legs ached to run to that boat! She wondered how many seconds of flight she would have if she gave him one hard push. Perhaps she could swim across it, and she began to recollect is she had ever read about the depth and length of the lake.

Erik saw her eyes fixed on the water, and guessing her thoughts said, "The lake runs quite a few meters in length. Though not insuperable, I would not advise swimming across it. If your strength does not fail you, my haphazard surprises might."

"Surprises," she echoed, her body moving closer to the water.

_What a disposition!_ Erik thought in amazement. She probably imagined herself on the other side of the lake, running up the cellar steps, and reaching the outside doors of the Opera House. As much as he would like to see her verve in action, he had to warn her against trying any such display.

"Comtesse, I have designed my own little, private dwelling to my very liking. It is made to keep out unwanted visitors, and to deter invited ones from leaving."

Rosalie understood. Turning sad eyes on him, she stated, "People have died here."

"Yes."

"Not necessarily by your hand.""Correct."

"But by your design."

"I will show you something you will not like to see," was the answer he gave her. There was a rough edge in his voice, and when he took her hand again, it was with less gentility and more force.

He led her to a room behind a wall, where there was nothing but mirrors and a metal tree.

"Interesting," Rosalie muttered, looking about the room curiously. "What does all this signify?"

Erik let out a long sigh, coming from the deepest part of his soul. "It is a hall of mirrors. I call it a maze."

"Oh," she said simply. "Where does it lead?" She asked, walking up to her own reflection. One of the reflecting glasses had a crack, as if someone had smashed a fist into it. As her hand reached out to touch the marks, she felt her stomach drop, for her captor answered,

"To one's demise."

She turned around to see his face, to read his expression, but all she could see where the demonic eyes gazing at her sorrowfully. He had brought her into the room to die. No one revealed their secrets to their enemies. She tried to embrace her fate.

"How does the individual die?" she asked, leaning against the broken mirror, bracing herself for the worst.

"Heat exhaustion," Erik said coldly. The Lady looked as if she were on the verge of passing out, but she did not. She took in one large breath, and released it in several shaky ones. She did not scream, nor cry, nor attempt to flee; she stared at him bravely.

"Before you kill me, may I ask something of you?" was her unexpected comment.

Erik started at the question. "Before I do what?"

"Before you kill me. That is why you brought me here. I have seen too much. I know too much. It is all right. It is appointed for all men to die. I know in whom I believe."

"You believe that I meant to roast you alive? Madame, I do not kill women." Rosalie thought the matter over. He had had more than enough chances to slay her had he wanted to. Oh, he had threatened countless times to do so, but always restrained himself at every turn. He spoke truth. Still she asked,

"Am I the closest you have come to considering it?" She did not jest in her manner.

"Yes," Erik answered swiftly and honestly. "Do you consider that an honor?"

But she had already turned her back on him, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Reaching up to touch the split glass again, she asked,

"Is this how Philippe died?"

"No, Comtesse. I swear to you, he did not die in this way," Erik said gravely.

Rosalie closed her eyes, and pressed her head against the mirror. After a moment's pause, she said, "Tell me how it happened."

Erik closed his eyes in turn. Why would she ask to hear something that would pain them both? Regretting having brought her there, he decided he would not grant her petition though he had jested no secrets should be kept between them.

"No," he said, attempting to keep his tone cold.

She turned around, her cheeks flushed, her eyes ablaze. "You owe me that much!" she stated, her tone rising.

"I owe you nothing," Erik cried, his voice thundering.

"Damn you! You owe me everything!" she cried, again losing all control, turning and striking her fists against him. "You took him from this world before his time! You took him from _me_!"

Erik grabbed her hands. The last blow hurt. "If such is the matter, then what does the world owe me? Accursed as I am with my deformity, denied the love of my mother, sold to gypsies, only to later become the murdering slave of a Shaw! By such standards, what should I have in return? I shall answer that for you! I get nothing, because I am nothing! And since I have nothing to give, such is what you shall receive!" He then pulled her out of the death chamber, dragging her back to the drawing room. Flinging her on the sofa, he tossed a book into her lap, signaling amicability at an end, declaring the conversation over.

Rosalie had felt the height of his fury before and the wrath of his hands; she knew what he was capable of when pushed to his limit, but rage took over reason. She grabbed the book and flung it against his retreating form. With an anguished cry, she threw herself face down on the coach, and burst into fresh tears, weeping for her husband anew.

Feeling the book strike the back of his head, Erik spun around, approaching the Comtesse in fury, but the sight of her melted his anger. Had anyone ever wept for him in such a manner? Never. Her loss and pain were real, and his hands had caused both. He picked up the book, and allowing her to cry, pulled a chair and sat across from her. When her sobs quieted, he began to speak.

"He came to the edge of the lake, on the other side. I knew not who he was - not that it would have made any difference. We were all to die that day if Christine would not have me. Christine, the Vicomte, and the Daroga, all were prisoners here in my dungeon. I was determined to kill us all, alongside all the opera house guests in one fiery blaze. He found me at the height of my madness, or rather I found him.

"I descended upon him in a matter of seconds. I cut off his breath quickly and easily. Whether I drowned or strangled him, I could not say. Perhaps I did both. He did not have a chance to see me, for it was dark. I did not give him a chance to beg for his life, as my hands wrapped around his throat."

Rosalie lay motionless at the narrative, only an occasional tremble fluttered through her body.

"I felt the loss of a life. I do not feel it as others do, but I mourned for him in my own way. I returned and played a requiem for him." A strange, garbled noise escaped Erik's mouth. He was disgusted with himself. Why hadn't he killed himself when he had the chance? Why didn't he kill himself now?

"Is there any satisfaction in knowing?" he asked the Comtesse, who still lay in a heap on the sofa.

"Did he suffer long?" she asked in a pitifully, sorrowful voice, without looking up.

"Either death is not pleasant and he was consumed by fear, but no - neither lasted long," he said, in the hopes of consoling her, if there was any consolation to be found.

After releasing a breath that shook the entire room, she sat up. Erik winced at the sight of her face. It was red and blotchy, her eyes bloodshot from the salty tears, and puffed up. Her lips were especially bright. It was the face of suffering. For the first time in a long time, Erik felt pity. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief, which she refused to take. They sat in silence for several minutes, until Rosalie spied the title of the book in Erik's hands.

"Is that what I threw?" she asked.

"Yes. You have good aim," he said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Rosalie humphed. "I never did think much of poetry."

"It is said to be food for the soul. Most women love it."

She stood, but before walking away stated, "I am not most women." She then went to the room, where she slammed the door, and bolted it behind her.

Erik made no motion to detain her. They had both exhausted one another again, and needed the separation. As for her final statement, her not being like other women, she had no need to state it. He could clearly see that for himself.


	15. Part 11: A Meeting of the Minds

Part 11: A Meeting of the Minds

Wanting to know more of the Comtesse's thoughts and impressions on the world, Erik sought new ways to engage her in conversation. However, judging by her stiff limbs and stone-faced expression during the discussions, it became clear she was not as eager as he was. Despite her obvious displeasure - or perhaps because of it - Erik enjoyed the one-sided conversations all the more.

After several interviews conducted in said manner, Erik concluded he was not interested in conversing simply for the sake of doing so; he wanted to know more about _her_, and as he continually pressed her for information she was unwilling to share, he realized hateful feelings transitioned to ones more genial.

Having believed his heart only held contempt and bitterness for the world, the revelation shocked him. Erik feared the woman cracked his veneer, and he wondered why for she had never shown him a moment's tenderness or pity, but there was no denying she influenced his sentiments. Her mere presence excited him, and he looked forward to any small mite of information she shared. He even began to fancy she did not hate him. Hatred took up too much energy. It was too intense an emotion. Perhaps she felt cool indifference for him or perhaps his quiet existence and eagerly anticipated death meant one and the same to her. Either way, he wanted to know.

In an effort to make amends and hoping to soften her a bit, Erik purchased the Comtesse several new books. One afternoon while she bathed and dressed, (for she had begun taking pains with her appearance again), he stepped out. Walking into the crowded streets of Paris was a risk he seldom took, but he knew which shops provided minimal visibility, and he had an understanding with the shopkeepers there. He returned before she even realized he had left, carefully arranging the books on the coffee table, patiently waiting for her to emerge.

When the Lady finally did stir from her confinement, she sat quietly in her usual seat, staring blankly into the air. There had been nothing grand in her entrance. Erik did not have to bother with the formalities of standing upon her entrance, but for him the atmosphere immediately charged, and his eyes instantly locked onto her.

She was dressed in her usual attire, a black silk gown with her hair knotted and pulled away from her beautiful ivory face. Erik noticed the absence of radiance and its joyless expression, but what joy could be expected under the present conditions? He knew what it was to remain enclosed and incarcerated in a particular place for too long. Confinement ate away at a person -- the reason for his constant stirrings about the Opera House. Not wanting her to lose any of her luster, he wondered if he could arrange an outdoor trip. Perhaps he could take her to the rooftops at nightfall, but even that seemed risky. She might scream for help, or throw herself off the roof in an attempt to escape.

Never had Erik had so much trouble submitting someone to his will. What normally took days, stretched to weeks, and he sometimes questioned if he could keep her in his lair. With her disappearance published in the papers, and the police conducting their investigations, he knew it wouldn't be long before the search turned to the Opera House yet again. He wondered what took the incompetent fools so long to begin their inquiries, and wasn't quite sure what direction his plan would take when they finally did. In the meantime, he would savor what he could of the Lady's company.

"Would you care to read something?" Erik asked, after a period of ten minutes in which the Comtesse did nothing but blink.

Rosalie shook her head without looking at him.

"I have bought you some books I believe you would enjoy." Erik walked over to the table and carefully handed her the three items, taking caution lest she decided to fling them back in his direction.

The Comtesse sat motionless for several seconds, distrusting his motives. Finally, she reached out for the offering, her reaction the one he had hoped. She seemed to revive, color sprung to the white face, the lost look in her eyes replaced by recognition, and the smallest flicker of a smile appeared on her lips as she fingered the books.

She had never received such a gift. Philippe had lavished jewels, silks and furs on her, but he had never bought her books. She had too much brains for her own good, was his reason, and he had rather she engaged in activities that encouraged more gentle and feminine behavior, like crocheting or painting. He had adamantly tried to generate softer interest, finding little success in his attempts. After his death, Rosalie felt guilty she had not succeeded in his wish. Her guilt now mingled with confusion as her kidnapper, of all people, presented her with the one thing her husband had not.

Rosalie lifted her eyes to Erik's who watched her with great curiosity. She could not deny the change in his comportment since giving her the particulars of Philippe's death. Her captor had been gentler, kinder, less obtrusive and more respectful. He had allowed her to walk freely about his home, though she usually never strayed far from the room. He encouraged her to look through his simple possessions. Normally, she would have done so eagerly, but she contained herself. She suspected he wanted her to feel comfortable in his home, but that would never happen. She had her own home -- one she and her husband had furnished with love -- and no amount of books or kind gestures could make her forget that fact, nor the fact that she was a prisoner.

But neither could she ignore the gift, and as her fingers tightened around the green colored binding, she felt the sensation of the new yet unturned pages on her fingertips. It made her dizzy. Without a doubt, she had received the greatest compliment she had ever known, resulting in greater agitation.

"Thank you," she said reluctantly, a flustered and troubled expression crossing her features. In an effort to avoid an uncomfortable silence between them, she picked up the book, reading the title, a copy of John Milton's _Paradise Lost_.

Her high brow furrowed, casting him a quizzical glance. "Poetry?" she asked, feeling the gift depreciate.

"It is an English work," he stated. He had purposely purchased it to see her reaction.

"So much the worse," she replied, wrinkling her nose.

Erik could not help but laugh at her statement. Her cynic remark sounded very similar to something he would say. "It is reputed as a classic."

"Yes…I have heard, but its style prejudices me against it. I know it is not fair, but such is the case between me and sonnets." She was about to put the book aside to read the next one - a history of ancient civilizations - when she noticed him take a low seat near her signaling he meant to continue the conversation.

"Why do you detest it so?" Erik inquired.

Rosalie bit her inner cheek a moment, debating whether she should continue. His eagerness made her feel shy and uncomfortable, but unable to resist the conversation of books, she responded.

"It is a deceptive art, used for the seduction of the simple minded, its effect similar to wine. Too much causes inebriation and leads to wanton acts. Poetry too, can numb reason and intellect, leaving the individual - namely the female to whom it is recited - powerless. Cast under the spell of its lovely charm, she's rendered useless, living for the next passionate line that fills her soul. Years later, she finds herself in a cold marriage that mirrors nothing of the verses that captivated her…." Rosalie stopped, her cheeks tingling with the sudden warmth of expression.

The flustered, confused air became her, and Erik was impressed, both with her words as with her appearance. During her speech, she had transformed. She had not been angry so much as she had been passionate. Her expression had been animated, her countenance alive. He even dared think she briefly enjoyed it. Wanting her to continue, he asked,

"Do you speak this way from experience? Were you in a cold marriage? Did your husband win you with eloquent recitations?"

The Comtesse, never sure if he teased her when he mentioned Philippe, bristled.

"What do you care?" she snapped, fearful he thought they bonded.

"I am curious," was the calmly given explanation. He had spoken the words with such gentleness and humility, Rosalie's anger lessened, and almost immediately, she conceded.

"Both Philippe and Eustache tried for my hand. Philippe was ingenious, crafty perhaps. He allowed Eustache to try first, and the man did try, discussing Keats and Coppée within Philippe's presence. I snubbed the famed poets. I suppose I snubbed Eustache as well, and Philippe took his turn. He shared his naval stories with me. I was fascinated by them," she let out a small laugh. "I am sure he exaggerated his role, but I did not question it. I admit to being flattered by his dramatic interpretations." She shrugged her shoulders. "All men have their tricks," she concluded.

"As do women," Erik countered, but then observed, "You are not a romantic idealist."

"No, I cannot say that I am. I am more severe than most women, though I can be just as gentle, meek, and submissive _when I choose to be_. I was for Philippe."

The image for Erik was difficult to picture who had only seen her defiance on display. "Was it not a guise?" he asked.

"My submission? No. It was the behavior of an obedient wife and an honest Christian."

"Christianity again," Erik snorted. "That religion suppresses our most innate desires."

Rosalie let out a quick breath. The Man chose his topics well. She could not resist discussing religion either. "Yes. You speak as if it is a bad thing."

"Is it not?" The bright yellow eyes seemed to spark eagerly, but so did hers.

"Where is the evil to not act upon our secret, selfish desires? Why is it wrong to struggle with our demons and to overcome? The race is not for the swift, nor the battle to the strong, rather it is for him who continually presses forward…" again she stopped, finding him attentive to her every word, never looking away. His intensity frightened her. Lowering her gaze and her voice, she said, "We were meant to heed a higher call."

"You speak of principals and morals again. As you have no patience for pretty rhymes, I have none for so-called divine enlightenment," Erik snarled. Rosalie pictured the monstrous face contorting beneath the mask, and felt disturbed. He was at war with God, and she wanted no part of it. She smoothed her skirt, as a pretext to turn her body away from him and cease all further discussion.

Erik saw the change of expression, countenance, and body language. She apparently disliked his lack of reverence and blasphemous tongue. Not wishing to end all conversation, he abruptly changed the topic.

"You say your friend tried for your hand. It is no secret he has an Eros love for you?"

The conversation was no better for Rosalie whose face began to burn. She purposely turned the seat in the opposite direction, pressing her lips together, refusing to answer him.

Despite his blunder, Erik smiled. It was so easy to provoke her. Still he felt the need to apologize. "Forgive me Comtesse. I have been without company for quite some time. My manners lack in the art of conversation."

Rosalie shot a look in his direction that clearly said, _They lack in many areas_.

Erik read the expression. "I am a man with no formal breeding and deficient of proper etiquette, but you will see that I am not the terrible ogre you believe me to be, or the demon you fear."

He received a dubious look from his fair guest. She remained mute, and unable to resist the lure of forcing her to speak he said, "It amazes me that such an unromantic woman could be so passionate and loving to her husband. I am curious, do you love him more now in death than you did in life?"

She instantly turned in his direction, taking several large swallows before speaking. "Why do you persist in asking me such questions?" she asked, her voice anguished. "What delight do you take in pressing salt against my wound?"

Erik became serious. "I do not ask to hurt you. They are questions that fill my mind, and I simply would like to know the answer.

Rosalie's eyes became narrow slits, as she wetted her lips for battle. Erik prepared himself for the brazen comment that was certain to follow. Crossing her arms defiantly she said, "You have much nerve to be so interested in my affairs _now_. Why didn't you stop and consider _then_ if the man you strangled had a wife and child _before_ you wrapped your icy hands about his neck."

Paying no heed to her reprimand, Erik offered one of his own. "You should not make reference to something you do not have. It makes for poor debate," he scolded.

A confused look crossed over the Lady's pretty features. Her eyes locked onto his, trying to find clarity in his words. She had expected him to feel shame, slightly if need be, in her rebuke, but instead he scolded her. She could not make sense of it.

"You do not have children," Erik said in an attempt to clarify the matter, succeeding only to further agitate the Comtesse who turned nearly as purple as her eyes.

"You said-" he began.

"Oh, you are insufferable!" she cried interrupting him. "I know what I said, but I

meant-", she shook her head. "The conversation is over," she announced, and turned to Milton, though Erik doubted she read single word.

Erik rose from his seat and retreated to another part of the room. He pretended to engage himself with note writing, but instead kept a watchful eye on her. Her lips were set in grim determination, and from time to time her eyes traveled to her gold band. After a while, she stopped pretending to read and kept her gaze on the fire, the flickering flames reflecting off her irises. An inaudible sigh escaped from her lips, but Erik heard it. He saw the water in her eyes quietly spill, and noted her refusal to wipe them away.

The sight caused his heart to give a strange sort of tug, one he was not unfamiliar with. It reminded him of the first time he had seen Christine. Watching her angelic glow from the rafters, listening to the purity and strength of her voice, he had at once been smitten. That had only led to unspeakable heartache, and resulted in near disaster. He vowed such sentiments would never rise again.

Erik decided to keep the conversation with the woman who sat but several feet from him to a minimum. If he could not, he would have to get rid of her, one way or another.


	16. Part 12: A New Search Begins

_**Author's Note:** So sorry about this mini chapter. I had forgotten how short it was. I'll come back tonight with a longer, juicier one._

_Thanks for reading; and to the reviewers, thanks a million._

_EA

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Part 12: A New Search Begins

A magnificent sunrise stretched over the city; in covering the grime and filth of the torrid town, it granted it the appearance of majesty and splendor, if but illusory. Miles ahead, the same sun kissed the trees of the North, declaring the arrival of a new day.

The rays began to loom upon the small chateau, and in doing so, broke the perfect silence of the home as it caused the only servant to stir. She ambled efficiently about the house opening drapes, lighting fires - hoping to have the breakfast done in a thrice.

After putting some water in a kettle to boil, the older busied herself in sweeping the kitchen. In the midst of her morning ritual, she spied a small white glove. She recognized the small delicate linen belonging to her Mistress. Strange that she should find it there. Neither she nor the Master had gone out the night before. The servant shrugged, put the glove in her skirt pocket and continued with the morning preparations.

The aroma of poached eggs, and fried sausage soon filled the house and traveled upstairs to the slumbering Vicomte's room. He stretched and slowly opened his eyes, his mouth beginning to water at the prospect of breakfast. Turning on his side, he cast a loving glance at his wife, but the look of adoration cooled upon discovering she lay not beside him.

Raoul sat up in his bed with a start. Had he overslept? He glanced at the windows, noticing the curtains had not yet been drawn. Looking over at her chair, he saw Christine's eggshell nightgown neatly folded on its seat. She had dressed and left the room, and he had not even noticed? He must be getting old for his sleep to be so heavy.

Leaving the bed, Raoul walked quickly to his basin and ewer, splashing the cold water on his bed-laden eyes. Smoothing his hair and moustache, he threw on a robe, and went down to give his wife their ritualistic morning embrace.

He walked into the sitting room first. Finding it empty, he turned to the drawing room. No sign of his beloved. Raoul frowned, and crossed his arms. Christine was not in the habit of cooking, but sometimes liked to help Olga. Turning to the kitchen, he found only the older woman placing the breakfast dishes on the tray. Seeing her master, her lips turned into a crinkly smile, and she curtsied obediently.

Ignoring the formality, Raoul asked, "Have you seen Christine?"

Olga's smile dropped. She heard the confusion in her employer's voice. "No, Sir. She was not in bed?"

Raoul did not answer, instead he ran up the stairs with Olga in tow, and threw open the closet doors.

"What is the matter, Monsieur Vicomte?" the elder lady asked, concern filling her voice.

Pushing Christine's garments to the side, he began weaving through her bags, his fears confirmed. There was one missing; the smallest of her traveling bags was gone, as were some very few items, a hairbrush, a notebook, and several gold coins from her own purse.

"Damn it!" Raoul cursed. "How could she be so careless, so stupid?" he cried passionately to the small servant.

Olga could only watch him with wide eyes as he paced the room in frustration. Fearfully, she pulled out the glove in her pocket. Handing it to him, she asked, "The Vicomtesse has left?"

Raoul stared at her, his blue eyes meeting her dark ones. "Yes," he said shakily. He then snapped out of his thoughts, and sending her away, began to dress in frenzy.


	17. Part 13: The Comtesse Speaks

_**Author's Note:** Here's the longer chapter as promised. Enjoy! Me

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_Part 13 The Comtesse Speaks 

It neared midnight, though the time mattered little to Rosalie having concept of neither day nor hour in her prison cell. Each day was the same in the cool underground dwelling, which, despite her best efforts, grew familiar to her.

She sat in bed, still fully dressed, reading Milton's epic. Finding sleep more and more difficult, she replaced the need by reading, her brain desperately seeking repose. But the activity did not grant her the pleasure it once had, as she experienced continually interrupted thoughts concerning _That Man_, though he no longer spoke to her. Throughout their meals, the only sounds heard were the clanging of silver against the plates. For Rosalie it was a welcome change, but though the words ceased, his staring magnified. She could not help but wonder at it. In any other man, she would interpret it as admiration, but of he who walked the edge of insanity, she did not know what to think. Perhaps his looks willed her to die seeing he had neither the heart nor courage to dispose of her with his hands.

Day after day, they ate and they sat. Rosalie began to experience an incredible dullness inside. Her eyes dried out from all the tears shed, her heart felt empty. The black garb she wore daily and defiantly suited the atmosphere, and there were moments when the outside world seemed but a distant memory. Her world reduced to one man and her books, and the former she tried to evade, concentrating her energy on the latter.

The passage of Lucifer's rebellion lay before her, when the Angel of Light expelled from heaven finds himself in the fiery gulfs of hell. She read of the great torment.

_A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,_

_As one great furnace, flam'd: yet from those flames_

_No light, but rather darkness visible,_

_Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,_

_Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace_

_And rest can never dwell, hope never comes_

_That comes to all: but torture without end…_

_As far removed from God and light of heaven._

Her eyes read the passage a second time and then a third, construing her own meaning from the message. She related the passage to her captor, The Man With No Name. Many times, she believed herself in a dungeon, but despite the dreariness in her situation, she had hope, perhaps not hope of escapement from her physical confines, but knowing eventually, she would find rest. He on the other hand, knew not the meaning of the word. As she continued in her reflection she understood his prison to be more than his home; it was his mind. So far removed from sun and light…and love…man's love. She knew God loved him, though he rejected it. As she connected him to the fallen angels cast out that fateful day, she wondered how a person existed with such hopelessness.

Her mind could have pondered those ideas until the rise of dawn had it not been for the sudden sound of music filling the room. For a second she believed it her imagination, a trick of the mind. It was, after all, very late at night, and her body ran on little sleep, but the music swelled and boasted unearthly tunes. As creative as she was, she could never imagine such melody.

Created by an organ, the masterful and dominant notes flew into the small dormitory, reaching into her. The perfectly tuned sounds were not delicate and aesthetic, rather agonized and tortured. Yes, she knew well who created such music, though never before had she heard him play; nor was she likely ever to forget.

Placing the book down, she stood and left her haven. The haunting tones surrounded the lonely flat, transforming it. No longer a simple dwelling, it became surreal, the soft glow from the few, lighted candles aiding the effect. For a moment, Rosalie forgot where she was. She entered a new place, one unknown to her, where time and elements ceased to exist. The notes resonated in the air, not only in sound, but also in sensation. Rosalie felt them swirl around her body, call to her mind, and reach her soul. A possessive force beckoned to enter her, and instead of fleeing as taught, she welcomed and embraced it. Following its command, she entered his room without reservation.

There he played, a bat unleashed for its nocturnal flight. Strong arms moved tirelessly over the massive organ, perfect hands striking down over the ivory keys. Rosalie watched it all in fascination…or was it fear? It was difficult to tell.

Absorbed in his music, Erik failed to notice the Comtesse's entrance. As he played from his opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_, he saw nothing save the girl who haunted his daily existence.

_You must work on it as seldom as you can_, Christine had commented after Erik told her about his work, and how once completed he would take it to his coffin never more to awaken. She had spoken the words as if the news of his death mattered. Little vixen! She wanted him to die! They all wanted him dead! They welcomed it! Erik's fingers slammed angrily over the keys of his organ, perspiration glistening on his bare forehead. He lifted one hand to wipe his brow, and it was then he heard the soft gasp.

Rosalie saw the misshapen profile and at once awoke from the dream. Just as she wondered if she could slip away unnoticed, she saw her captor's back stiffen, and his hands hastily retrieve his mask.

Without turning to face her he asked, "How does it feel to move in shadows?" His voice sounded strange, cold and distant. He, too, was under the influence of his music.

"I followed the light," she whispered. It did not seem appropriate to speak in a normal tone.

"It is dark all around. The light is a mere illusion." To prove his point, he extinguished the remaining flames in the room engulfing them in complete darkness. Having no need of the light to see, he secured his mask, stood, and walked towards her.

Rosalie wanted to flee, but her feet remained grounded to the floor. As the flickering eyes neared her, she backed herself further into the corner with nowhere to go.

"Why are you here?" he asked, severely annoyed, resenting her intrusion.

"I heard you, or rather, I heard the music." Had she heard music? She must have, for what other reason would she have to be in his room?

"Why could you not sleep?"

"I wasn't able to, yet I see I was not the only one." She did not mean to counter, but did so anyway.

"I rarely sleep, but that is my unique failing."

"Sleeping in a coffin, one could understand why." _Oh stupid woman_! _Be quiet! He will let you leave if you are quiet_.

"Even before the coffin," he impatiently replied. "You do not believe me to be a vampire or a part of the undead."

"You come across that way." Why were they speaking to one another? Was everything not better when there were no words between them?

"It is another illusion. I am a living man, tortured and tormented. People call me a ghost, but I am alive, as real as you - with a soul, mind, and heart. Feel this," he ordered, and grabbing her hand placed it to his beating chest, its thumping erratic.

"What do you say to that?" he asked, wanting her to speak. He wished to be broken from his melancholy, instead riled to anger.

What to say? Never having seen him in such a state, or rather heard him, (for save the bright specks that were his eyes, she saw nothing), she became uncertain. Her uncertainty left her mute.

That he was a man, she knew, or came to realize. That he had only known suffering and rejection in his lifetime she now understood. And she came to an awareness of his one desire, to live in a manner as others did. He grew tired of the extraordinary, and longed for the ordinary.

"I…I…I am sorry," was her sole answer.

Erik retained her hand over his hurting heart, and clasping it tighter asked,

"Why?"

"I am sorry for your pain and your loss," she said more eloquently.

He dropped her hand in disgust. "You know nothing of my pain," he answered, turning from her, and taking the last bits of light with him.

Oh, she wished she could see him in that darkened room! She could barely hear his steps.

"I know the pain of a love lost," she replied softly, hoping her words did not send him into a rage.

"True, but he loved you in turn. Blessed with beauty, you do not know the meaning of rejection. It is all I know. I have had no one's love. Not even my own mother would open her heart to me." His beautiful voice broke.

A new person unveiled himself to the Comtesse. She did not know this man who revealed the deepest part of his soul; it meant more than the revelation of his face. He showed her his life, the sorrow and horror of his childhood, the rejection and pain of his youth. He exposed his most vulnerable self; at that moment, she sensed she held power over him. If she wanted, she could injure him most cruelly, but any remaining hatred held dissipated at the sound of his anguished voice.

"Monsieur, I do not mean to compare my woes with yours. I have not lived your life, but in the fact that I do know pain, I try to relate to yours. What I cannot do with reason, I do with my heart."

"Pity? I do not need your pity here," he said contemptuously. "Christine pitied me. I was no more than a wounded dog to her."

"Yes, I do pity you, but I also feel compassion. I never felt it for you before," she admitted.

"Your philanthropic beneficence does nothing for me," he said, scorning her words. "Save your altruism for some other sniveling fool." She heard the light shuffle of his feet move further away. If she wanted to leave, he had given her the opportunity. She did not leave.

"And still I give it," she boldly replied. Trying to see in the darkness, she took a step forward, but it was nearly impossible. As she took a second step, her leg struck a chair and she howled. Despite himself, Erik chuckled at the woman's stubbornness.

"Oh, be quiet," she snapped, stooping to massage her wound. She looked out into the blackness that surrounded them. Realizing it would be easier to find him if he continued speaking, she asked, "Why must everything be difficult here?"

"Because I make it so. If I have never known the ease of life, how could you expect me to grant it in turn?"

Standing, Rosalie resumed her insecure, staggered approach. He stood a mere two feet away, but did not assist her in finding him. She neared him soon enough, and her outstretched hand brushed against him. Feeling his shirt, she clutched it and pulled the rest of herself nearer. Her hands trembled as she raised them past his long arms, his shoulders, and his neck as she began the ascent towards his mask. Erik, overcome with curiosity did not recoil from her, even as she tentatively pulled the cover away. Her right hand slid behind his neck, and she pressed it, signifying for him to lower as she stretched on the tips of her toes. He obeyed.

"Dear Monsieur," she whispered into his ear, "God loves you. Allow me to be His vessel in extending that love."

Erik felt warm, soft lips graze the top of his forehead. It was a clumsy, frightened kiss, but a kiss all the same. Seldom having had physical contact, he froze at the sensation.Here was a sinner's repose. If ever Erik had doubted in God's mercy and grace, he was now reaffirmed of it. God's unconditional love demonstrated through her, his vessel.

In turn, Rosalie felt the salty drops fall to her face as she pulled away from him. Audible cries followed the tears, filling the room as beautifully and sensationally as the music had prior. Her limbs still shaking, she reached to embrace him. Shaking all over, he allowed the embrace, and neither one heard the soft thud of the mask as it slipped from her hand to the wooden floor.

* * *

Excerpt from _Paradise Lost_, pages 12 and 13, lines 61-67; 73.

Leroux, Gaston. _Phantom of the Opera_ p.169


	18. Part 14: A New Morning

Part 14 A New Morning

After expelling his tears, Erik asked Rosalie to return to her room, a request she denied. She claimed she did not mind keeping him company, and they moved to the drawing room, both on the couch observing a strange silence, not uncomfortable in nature, but neither harmonious.

Her eyelids growing heavy and vision blurring, she succumbed to sleep first. Erik removed her slippers from her feet and positioned her more comfortably on the chaise. Even in the darkness, he saw her perfectly. Pulling back several of her stray locks, he ran a gentle finger across the smooth cheek.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than he supposed. He had seen her heart, her soul and strength in action. God had graced her with some element of the supernatural to deal with the recent hardships, her reactions never quite what he anticipated.

Several minutes passed, and Erik realized he still stroked the perfect cheek so unlike his own. The contrast of the ivory face compared to his gross deformity troubled him, and when he lifted his hand to his own visage discovered he was still unmasked. Horrified, he fled the room, almost quitting the apartment. But once he placed the cover about him, he relaxed considerably and felt enough strength to return to the room retreating to the opposite end of it, watching her in meditative silence.

Erik wondered at her ceasing all manner of hatred towards him. Certainly he had done nothing to warrant such grace, and yet there she stood, offering him an amicable sort of love, a kindredship. He was unfamiliar with the notion.

He would have to free her; there was no arguable choice in the matter. As she claimed to care about his person, there would be no need to worry she would seek his death. The matter seemed simple enough, but was it so?

And so Erik watched and thought from his seat, until his eyes grew heavy, and a brief rest overcame him.

Morning returned to France, though no sunlight streamed beneath the opera house. Rosalie awoke first. Opening her eyes, she gazed at the tall man across from her who resumed his mask. Viewing the dropped head, covered by headpiece and wooden veil, her heart tugged. What must it be like to live an entire life concealed, to have so much to offer and find oneself shunned by all? In all the ironies of life, this was by far the greatest she knew.

Even in sleep, Erik felt himself watched, and opening his eyes with alacrity, met hers. Rosalie saw him give her an uncertain look, and for the first time in their acquaintance, the gentleman broke eye contact first. She smiled softly to ease him.

"Good morning," she said sweetly, if not awkwardly. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," was his direct response.

"Honest man. Well, neither did I." She sat up, her long black hair falling to one side over her shoulder. With a wave of her hand, she flung the raven strands behind her. Not wishing to reopen the previous night's wounds, she engaged him in commonplace discussion, asking if he was hungry.

"No." Again the quick, brief response, so different from the inquisitive, eager mind days fore.

"Could you say something other than one word phrases in negation?"

"Why?"

A wry smile appearing on her lips, she asked, "Would you like me to make breakfast?"

"You cook?" Erik asked distrustfully, a curious glimmer appearing in his eyes. He leaned forward in his chair a bit, giving Rosalie the first sign of animation since awakening.

"Quite well, perhaps not as well as you. I have not had too many opportunities in life to display my talents, cooking being one of them. It's all very scientific actually. The right mixture of elements with the proper temperature yields the desired results."

Erik smiled at her over simplification of the process, relaxing at her suggestion.

She returned the smile, her face radiating, and with a gentle prod asked, "What say you then? Does it sound agreeable?"

Concurring it was, they betook themselves to the small kitchen, he aiding her in locating the necessary items and maneuvering about. She braided her hair and wrapped a small hand towel about her waist as an apron. Erik sensed the eagerness in her air, and watched the lightness in her step. For her, it was great fun, and she delighted in preparing the eggs, making the bread and slicing the ham, her nimble fingers fast and efficient.

Once convinced she would not hurt herself cutting and dicing, Erik's eyes moved away from her hands to the rest of her figure. He watched her sculpted arms extend when grabbing a plate or utensil, and noticed the lips pout if she made a mistake, turning to a delicious self-congratulatory smile when she overcame the error. From time to time, she moved past him, the hem of her skirt brushing his shoes, causing a strange pang within him. He recalled her soft lips barely touching his coarse head, her gentle embrace enveloping his monstrous form. Had the events from the night before been real or a dream? Apparently, it had been real, for there in the kitchen stood two completely altered beings.

Her halted stiffness gone, her icy looks melted, her hardened features a distant memory. In their place were shy glances, sweet words, and a congenial appearance. It was a different woman; one Erik did not know and had to reacquaint himself.

She seemed willing to be reacquainted with. Communicative and gregarious, glad and social, she tended to him, and shocked as he was, he allowed it.

After eating, he watched her whisk everything away, while he sat dumbfounded and perplexed. He had never known the gentle care of a woman, and though he had doubted in her abilities, found her to be extremely warm and tender when - as once time confessed - _she chose to be_. Claiming the need to freshen up, she stood to go, but he stopped her.

"Comtesse, stay a moment. I wish to tell you something," he abruptly declared, rising hastily from his seat.

Rosalie turned, her full attention towards him.

He would release her. He would tell her she was free to return to her own. Approaching her, he saw her graceful neck lift to keep with his own unwavering gaze. She did not recoil or fear.

"I will release you… in a week," he stated, wincing within for prolonging the deed, but his resolve had weakened at the idea of releasing her so suddenly.

"A week?" she echoed, her thoughts racing. Oh, to be free! To return to sun, warmth, and life. To see Miriette and her home, and to visit Eustache, her heart always with the good man. Staring at her captor, she wondered if he were in earnest. Did he really mean to set her free within the week? If such was the case, she would be exquisitely well-behaved. But what if he lied? His moods fluctuated terribly like the flow and ebb of the tide. What if at the end of the week, he was no longer in good humor? Her reason told her to demand he release her that very moment, but she ignored the warning. He was a lonely man, depressed. She promised to show him compassion. She would not turn her back on him; she could not leave him in his present state. And how could she be expected to return to normalcy? Like him, she too needed time to get used to the idea.

However, there was selfishness in her selflessness. She wanted to learn as much as she could from this man's genius. Never having argued with anyone in the manner she had with him, she felt her brain sharpened, and her beliefs challenged. Though she would never consciously admit it, she was secretly thrilled and excited. He _listened_ to her. No person had ever listened to her the way he did. Even Eustache, with all his tenderness, was at times too soft, letting her have her way. No loving sentiments between the two, she believed she and the man could resume their highly charged intellectual sparring in a more civilized, less aggressive manner.

"Is it too long?" Erik's voice questioned, interrupting her from her thoughts. "I am sure you would like it to be this instant."

She raised her eyebrows and hesitated. Feeling she held the key to her freedom, she willfully handed it back to him, saying,

"Do not tell me you've finally tired of me. But I should have come to expect it. Even Philippe left me from time to time."

Erik stared at her for her answer given.

"I will wait for the week's end and neither one of us will rue it." She extended her hand in a gentleman-like manner.

The gratification that washed over Erik was instantaneous. He grabbed her hand and bending over, lifted his mask just a bit to kiss the smooth skin. Rosalie blinked at the reaction. Fearing he had displayed too much emotion, he replaced his mask and abruptly left her, while she ran off in the opposite direction.

At the hospice, the monks walked about quietly, tending to their studies and duties. They fixed the garden, washed dishes, prepared meals, and arranged books. They took turns tending to their unconscious guest.

One of the monks entered the room. It was time for their charge's bath. He soaked the sponge into the water, and began to unbutton the man's nightshirt, when he noticed the twitch in a finger.

A soft sounding moan escaped from the man's lips, and the lifeless eyes fluttered quickly. Then, nothing.

The monk, fearing it had been a reflexive response, continued with his routine, making a note to have the doctor come and look at his patient.

After finishing with the sponge bath, he began to adjust the gentleman's attire; as he bent forward to straighten the collar about the neck, he heard a faint sound, almost breath-like. He leaned in closer.

"Ro…lie," the monk heard the man say. "Ro…sa…lie."


	19. Part 14Sec 2

Dr. Bruyere rushed as quickly as his stout little legs permitted him. The monks had sent word of Monsieur Rousseau's awakening, and the doctor was only too eager to verify the man's state and condition. There had been previous cases of people rousing from comas only to remain in half-vegetative states.

When the doctor arrived to the door, he paused momentarily to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his flushed face, but upon entering realized he had needlessly feared over the man's remaining in a passive, restrained condition. Rousseau thrashed about his bed -- fighting, struggling, against the poor monk who desperately tried to control him.

What was he thinking of? What nightmarish vision or recollection passed through his unconscious mind? In Dr. Bruyere's thirty-five years of practicing medicine, he had never seen anyone react like this. Obviously, Rousseau had recuperated enough strength, at least in his arms and legs.

Dr. Bruyere reached into his bag, preparing a serum into a syringe. It was a sedative meant to calm, not to put him to sleep, but if the man continued to move about in such manner, the doctor would consider striking him.

"Hold him steady!" Bruyere yelled at the poor monk whose strength exhausted. It was all the latter had done for the past ten minutes.

Managing to grab a hold of the wildly flailing arm, the doctor pinned it down and inserted the long needle. The medicine released into his vein, and not a moment too soon, for seconds later Eustache slapped the hand away causing the needle to fly out and scratch his own arm. Both Bruyere and the monk threw themselves on top of Eustache to impede him from further possible harm, until the medicine worked its effect.

A minute or two later, the thrashing calmed, the cries quieted, the eyelids dropped, and Eustache was once more docile.

Once calm, both men simultaneously released their hold of the subdued patient. Bruyere pulled out the handkerchief a second time to dab his re-moistened forehead, wondering how much more exercise the morn would bring to him.

"Good motor functions," he gasped. "Muscle and brain receptors appear to be connected," he stated, slinking down into the wooden chair; it creaked precariously beneath him, as if it, too, uttered an exhausted sigh.

"What was that all about?" he whispered, not wanting Eustache to hear. Yes he was drugged, but why risk exciting him all over again?

"I am unsure. He kept yelling what sounded to be a woman's name over and over again."

"Who was it?" The doctor asked, inspecting his glasses for any sign of damage before resting them against the bridge of his nose.

"Ros-lie, I think he said."

"Ros-lie?" Bruyere muttered. Why did the name sound familiar? "Ros-lie," he said continually until the connection formed. "Rosalie! La Comtesse de Chagney!" he cried, forgetting Eustache was within earshot, nearly falling backwards from his seat.

"Rosalie, Rosalie. I can't – I can't – see you," the patient mumbled softly extending a weak hand before him.

The doctor observed Eustache a moment, his mind excitedly recollecting. He had read the papers. He knew all about the infamous disappearance. The stories circulated. She had been murdered; the police merely waited for the physical evidence of her lifeless body before releasing the information. Some gossipers were so cruel as to suspect the Vicomte for her disappearance, claiming he had murdered the husband and all that stood in the way of that man's fortune was the widow. With her gone, there would be no difficulty procuring the wealth. Others more sympathetic claimed the family was cursed. The Comte dead, his brother fled to the mountains, forcing his new wife to leave her prior life behind, and now the Comtesse disappeared. They had stated that the de Changny sisters best be careful. As Bruyere watched Eustache, he realized the man had experienced a memory.

"He was reliving a moment. Possibly the events that led to his attack."

"Le Commissaire would like to know of this."

"I am sure he would, but as he is my patient, I cannot recommend him for an interview just yet. The man has not even been awake two hours. I must ascertain the fullness of his faculties and rule out the possibility of any permanent injuries the cranium might have sustained. A man's testimony will not hold if any of his lobes are impaired affecting judgment. A little longer, and I will know if he can assist in the ongoing investigation."

"Yes. The man's testimony is critical," the monk readily agreed. "They have made no headway in the case and the Comtesse is still missing. It is as if the Earth swallowed her whole!"

At that moment Eustache mumbled, "below stairs."

Bruyere raised his thick eyebrows. Turning to the monk, he thanked him for his assistance before excusing him.

The doctor would check Eustache's physical state, and would then delve into his mental and emotional one. If he could unlock his mind, he could uncover the truth. He felt it a shame he did not know hypnosis.

The train slowed to a stop. The conductor gave the order and soon masses of people pulled out onto the platform.

A dark cloaked woman moved about the crowd in a hurried fashion, hoping to avoid recognition. She could not afford any more delays. The train had traveled at an unusually lagged pace, and she was certain her husband pressed at her heels.

She was sorry to have left him in the manner she did, but it was imperative she find Erik. He would listen to her, he would understand. He would let the Comtesse go and bring no harm to her or the baby.

Or so she hoped.

Christine quickly secured a cab, glancing over her shoulder as she mounted it.

"Where to, Madame?" the elderly driver asked.

"_A __L'Opéra_ _Garnier_ _rapidement_. I will pay you double your fee."

"Yes, Madame."


	20. Part 15: A Man Named Erik

Chapter 14 A Man Named Erik

_She agreed to stay. _Erik watched Rosalie stand in the middle of his room, the picture of animation and vibrancy – she added light to his dark surroundings - while he sat laconically at the organ, blending into the obscurity of the night. The lady perused through his older compositions, claiming to know nothing about music, and asked to learn some of its fundamentals, such as bass and treble clefs, breaks and tempos, whole, quarter, and half notes. Erik could barely contain himself at her attention, and was soon drawn out of his brooding melancholy. No deceit or manipulation in her manner, Rosalie made her inquiries with the utmost sincerity, and Erik's answers met with startling attentiveness. One question proceeded another and another - her appetite for knowledge insatiable.

"What is meant by a dynamic range?" she asked, her eyes moving rapidly between the page and her newfound professor.

"It is the difference between the quietest and loudest volume of music. It is a progression, actually more along the lines of a mathematical concept, an idea I'm sure you appreciate," Erik replied, shuffling through the staff sheets in an attempt to keep from staring at her.

"I do. Music is math, with counts and beats and summations and differences," she rapidly agreed, her focus traveling back to the paper, perhaps looking for the increase in the notes. "It is believed to stimulate that part of the brain."

"I'm surprised you have not mastered it. Have you never played?" He wondered why the idea never occurred to him before. Most noble ladies trained in some form of the arts.

"Yes," she answered, smirking at the recollection of Monsieur Pillichiard: strict, stiff and impossible, and worse, he hated all women, young girls particularly. Rosalie had proved a terrible student, vexing him with her inattentiveness and boredom.

Erik eyed her suspiciously. "Your look and tone leave much to the imagination. Were you consistent in your discipline?"

"I played when it could not be helped. My lessons were a trial."

"From what I gather, it sounds you did not have a favorable tutor, but let us return to the subject at hand. You should understand all music moves from the simple to the complex. The foundation is always the same, but undergoes layering." Feeling bolder, he turned to the organ, and with a jerk of his head beckoned her to his side.

Rosalie's stomach flipped. He had yet to play a single note, and already she anticipated the raptures certain to follow. Standing behind him, she braced herself, watching the masterful fingers at work, effortlessly gliding over the keys. His movements alone were hypnotic, but even more was the music created, all so rich and deep, dark and complex, like its creator. She staggered momentarily at the force of the tunes, and to steady herself, reached forward, placing her hand over the first thing it came into contact with, his shoulder.

Feeling as if an electric surge passed through his body, Erik tensed and stopped playing. It was enough for Rosalie to catch her breath, blinking rapidly.

"I-I am sorry," she mumbled. "I did not mean to-"

"Do you sing, Madame?" Erik asked quickly, hoping to change the subject.

Finding the question humorous, and relieved at his abruptness, Rosalie began to laugh. The action relaxed the gentleman, and Erik savored the silvery tone; it reminded him of the ringing of a bell echoing prettily in the flat.

"I surmise that is a no," he answered, turning to face her.

"Quite so. I talk well enough, but to sing - that is an entirely different matter. I confess I did not have patience for that either." She paused, wondering if they were on terms for compliments. Taking a quick breath, she offered hers.

"I suppose your voice is very fine."

It was Erik's turn to remain silent. Having never flattered himself before, he hesitated in responding.

Sensing something wrong, Rosalie jumped in. "Sing something. From your opera perhaps," she said quickly, hoping to put him in good humor.

"From my opera?" he echoed in wonder.

"Yes," Rosalie added, the idea appealing to her more and more. She imagined the beautiful voice sailing through the apartment. The prospect delighted her. "Sing an aria."

But while she congratulated her cleverness, Erik grew somber, dark memories filling his mind. "I am afraid you have requested something I simply cannot do."

Rosalie's face knotted in confusion. "You _cannot_ do? You who can do almost anything. You who choose to live in a way others cannot, you now tell me you _simply cannot_ sing from the opera you yourself have penned?" She cast him a skeptical glance.

"It is not so simple as you contrive it to be."

"Enlighten me."

It was a discussion Erik would rather not engage in, bringing back to mind the young girl he swore to move heaven and earth for. Merely imagining her face, the blue eyes staring into his own, the golden curls falling over her shoulder, caused a series of shivers to run through his body. A woman he so desperately and vehemently loved had not loved him in turn, choosing instead to give her heart to a whit of man who blubbered at the first sign of trouble.

But looking into the purple eyes, which eagerly sought his, to see the animated expression in his guest's countenance, encouraged and troubled him. There was interest in her looks, concern in her questioning - concern for him. Suddenly realizing the little space between the two, new sensations took over. Quickly standing, he fought against them, hoping to retain only reason, focusing solely on conversation.

"My opera is a troubling piece. Not the music, but what it represents for me," he tried to explain. The Lady quietly waited for him to continue. "It is connected to my life. It is a part of my soul."

He saw the eyes flinch quickly, trying to decipher his meaning.

"Do you mean you pour your soul into it?" she asked hopefully.

"Not quite. It is my soul."

"It reflects your soul?"

"No." Erik answered, frustrated. He paced up and down the room, repeatedly sighing. Rosalie eyed the elegantly dressed figure move with light, quick steps. She thought of letting him be, but found his philosophies addictive, and could not.

After several more seconds of quiet movement he said,

"It is my life force."

He watched the porcelain face contort in deep thought. Lines creased the perfect brow; a delicate finger brushed an imaginary strand from her temple. He could almost see the ideas form. She wanted to know how a composition could be connected to one's vitality. He aided her.

"When I complete that work I shall die," he said with ominous finality.

Rosalie did her best to contain herself at his wild declaration. The only hint of surprise evidenced in the slight widening of her eyes, she managed to leave her face expressionless. How to respond to such a claim? Should she ask why he believed so? With all The Man had experienced, his perspectives would border on the insane.

Erik added, "This work sustains me and motivates me when I realize my life holds no meaning. It brings purpose and upholds me the days through. In my moments of extreme desolation, I work on it ceaselessly forgoing food or drink. The music nourishes me. Once completed, I shall have achieved my goal-"

"And there will be nothing more to tether you to the world," she finished for him, her eyes bright with understanding.

Glad to be spared the final declaration, Erik released a breath and nodded.

"Yes, you understand."

Rosalie understood. She understood his extreme loneliness and solitude, him believing the latter as the only possible means of existence with his music his sole companion. Were it not for that, he'd have died a long time ago.

Was it just that a man with so much taste, talent, and genius should remain a recluse? To exist only in shadows? To be thought of only as an apparition? The world was not kind. Harsh and judgmental it denied a man the chance to live - truly live - because of a deformity he could not help. The world accused, believed his sins brought upon God's wrath, but Rosalie knew better, or at the very least, was learning. The man before her was meant for greater things. He should not die in that dark, dreary, melancholic manner. Somehow, she would convince him otherwise.

Assuming a light tone she said, "Sir, you will sing this for me, or I will be very put out."

"I have seen you put out. It does not frighten me," Erik turned towards her again, sensing what game she played. The corners of his hidden misshapen lips turned upwards.

"I will be more so. You will not like it," Rosalie pressed in her most stubborn manner, but the underlay of humor rose through her words.

"Do you mean to throw a tantrum, Comtesse?" As immature as the act would be, for reasons he could not explain, the idea appealed to him.

"No. I will only continually demand for my immediate release. If you will not demonstrate to me the potency of your great voice, you are of no more use or interest to me," she bluntly stated.

Erik crossed his arms, liking her daring, but assumed his most stern manner.

"Does not your Christianity teach you to be meek?" He asked reproachfully.

"Yes it does, but I struggle in that regards."

"You haven't even tried, Madame."

She waved her hand. "Do not attempt to dissuade me. My mind is quite made up. Perform or I will pack my bags."

"You did not bring anything with you," Erik countered with a slight shake of the head.

She'd almost forgotten the manner in which she arrived at his stead. Recollecting, she felt indignation return and used the sentiment in her argument.

"Who's fault is that? Let us not forget _you_ kidnapped _me_. And what of your gifts? The purchases you made for me? Unless you feel the need to take them back, which in such case they were not gifts at all. What principles have you? Where is your honor?"

Erik released a dry laugh, moving away from her. "Principles and honor? You speak of someone else. What man are you confusing me with? My purchases were bribes meant to keep you quiet, which I see has not worked. But days ago you were a mute."

"But days ago I hated you to death," Rosalie blurted out before she could stop herself. After doing so, she bit her lip, waiting for his reaction.

A heavy silence fell between them. Erik froze, leaning by the coffin. Knowing the sentiment remained incomplete, he wondered if it was worth the trouble having her conclude the thought. His curiosity overpowering him, he decided to risk it.

"You don't hate me anymore, do you, Madame?"

Visibly flustered, Rosalie's eyelids dropped; her cheeks took on a rosy hue. She wondered how quickly she could leave the room without appearing to flee.

"N-no," she faltered. "I-I do not."

Beneath his mask, Erik pressed his lips together. He should have been satisfied with the direct response, but wanted to know more. Taking a step nearer, he asked,

"And what do you feel for poor Erik now?"

"I-I feel – who's Erik?" she suddenly asked, her neck snapping her head up.

He did not respond, only kept his illuminated gaze steady on hers.

"_You_ are Erik?"

"Yes."

"Erik," she mouthed, the eyes dropping again. She felt the force of the name, strong, steady, yet poetic, but behind the name laid a greater revelation.

They entered new ground.

She looked up again, and found him near her, about half an arm length's away. His steps so quiet, she had barely noticed his approach. Staring at him, she repeated the name as if under a spell. No longer a man cloaked in mystery, he transformed into a true character, a real person.

The room felt strange. Everything a fluster, confusion set in. Rosalie could not recollect anything else about the room that did not concern two bright yellow eyes watching her with vigor. He appeared ready to take another step, and she would not stop him if he did. But why would he continue to near her? What was supposed to happen next? What did she want to happen? No time for thought, she extended her left hand as if to reach for his, and in doing so caught a glimpse of another yellow flicker - her wedding band.

Shaking her head, and quickly shutting and re-opening her eyes, she turned away asking in haste, "Do you have a surname?"

"No," he answered, somehow making the single syllable word sound as if it had two; the moment passed, he retreated a few steps back.

"Well, Monsieur Erik, since you have given me the greater confidence of your name, and thus your identity, I will not bother you to sing," she said hurriedly.

"Very kind of you, milady," he half mumbled.

Taking advantage of the physical gulf between them, she excused herself, claiming sudden fatigue. Erik dismissed her with a wave of his hand, slinking over his organ.

What crazy notion entered his head? What strange occurrence transpired? He could not fancy her caring for him, not in such fashion. Could he forget he murdered her husband, kidnapped, struck and bound her, threatened her with death? If he had forgotten, it was most certain she had not. The revelation of his name would not erase the past.

And he in turn? How to interpret the strange sensations stirred in the brevity of the moment? He loved Christine, vowing never to feel such for another. Were it not love he concluded it was longing and desire, a feeling she could not reciprocate and he should never expect her to.

_But she agreed to stay._

Taking off his mask, he placed it on the organ, rubbing a weary hand across his chin. He felt the contortions and coarse skin between his fingers, a reminder of his fate. Why had he extended her stay? Even at that moment, he should have released her, but selfishness overcame nobleness. He could not deny himself the pleasure of her company. Life gave him so little, what harm was there in retaining such beautiful intelligence for another five days?

"Five days!" he suddenly cried out. "Can I control myself for such time?"

He had to, or terrible consequences would follow.

Sighing again, he pulled out his opera. It seemed a terrible temptation. If he sang it for her, what would happen? He knew the effect his voice could have. He had made many women climax by the mere sound of it. Could he do that to her? And if he could, did he want to? She was a widow – an experienced woman; did she not miss bedroom intimacy?

"You idiot! She is a widow at your hand! She will want nothing to do with you, just as the other refused. Given the opportunity, she too will flee!"

Erik angrily stuffed the now forbidden composition at the bottom of his pile, exiting the room and the apartment, hoping to find composure in his haunts.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Rosalie retired, but not to sleep. She retired to avoid him and his questions.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

He had given her an opportunity to leave, and she refused it. She believed she was sent there to help him change, but was it not the other way around? In the brief seconds reason abandoned her in that room, something transpired - something fearful, something never felt before. What did it all signify?

She did not know.

Rosalie sighed and looked down at her wedding band. "Philippe, what is happening?" she asked the empty room, tears of frustration filling her eyes, hoping for a sign. Everything she planned to do was amiss. Everything she hoped to discover was gone. And everything she knew about herself was a mass of confusion. Even her beliefs, which had guided her throughout her life, jumbled in her head, nothing more than a mass of words. Reason, intellect, faith and principle were doubtful. What was she left with?

A man named Erik.


	21. Part 16: The Return

_**Author's Note:**__ This is where I have "cleaned up" the story a bit. In it's original version, Rosalie is supposed to engage in a releasing activity. This revised version had done without it._

Part 16 The Return

The carriage rolled along the darkened streets of Paris. Curtains drawn to avoid curious onlookers, Christine rested her head against the velvet cushions closing her eyes, trying to slow the rapid palpitations of her racing heart and steady the shaky breaths escaping her. She recalled when last there. The fateful day swiftly brought back to memory. She could almost hear the music played as she sang. At first the audience heckled her for the revelation of her engagement to Raoul, but pushing aside her feelings and using her training, she became transcendent, awing her critics with the power of her voice, the way _he_ had taught her. All was perfect, all was harmony, and then it happened - plunging into sudden darkness, falling through a trapdoor, caught in his arms. A brief struggle followed, and then, greater darkness.

Drawing the curtain a bit, she cautiously peered out the small window. But yards before her stood the beautifully haunted, Opera Garnier: the stone monument growing closer.

"Monsieur, please stop here. I will walk the rest of the way," she said, realizing the need to remain inconspicuous for at least a little longer.

"Are you sure, Madame?" The coachman asked in surprise. "I think a woman in your condition-"

"It's fine. I'll be fine. Thank you," she responded, hastily handing the ducats owed.

Not wanting to enter through the main door and risk prematurely alerting him to her presence, she asked the coachman to turn the corner, no need for her to enter the customary fashion. She remembered the secret entrance; the only others who knew were Raoul and the Persian, but she the most familiar with the hidden passageway. Her traveling through it symbolized her prison and escapement.

Walking the empty cobblestone path, all the reasons to abandon her plan rushed to her mind. She placed herself and her baby in harm's way. And what of Raoul? How could she abandon him?

But even as the thoughts formed, her conscience told her she was perhaps Rosalie's only hope. Certain the Comtesse remained a prisoner of Erik's whim, she trembled lest she had seen his face. Who knew what could ensue from said action? And without any immediate family to return to, with no husband to look for her, nor children to miss their mother, there would be little external pressure for Erik to release her.

Christine believed herself capable of convincing him. Her plan was not to offer an exchange, trade one body for another - no. She would appeal to the good existing in his core, and he would listen. He had to.

Taking a deep breath, without so much as a glance behind, she pushed open a heavy door and made her way inside.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The dark, lonely corridors echoed her every step, making Christine sense a secondary presence, but there was none. After the third time thinking so, she removed her shoes in the hopes of eliminating the reverberating sounds.

She pushed yet another door, the one leading to the descent. As she approached the stairwell, she grew more determined, hastening her pace.

Just when she was to place her foot on the first of many stone steps, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder causing her to release an ear-piercing shriek. A second hand clamped her mouth shut.

"Ssh, Vicomtesse. It is only me," a vaguely familiar voice whispered into her ear.

Turning around, Christine recognized who held her.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Erik paced the darkened hallways, stepping in and out of shadows. Stealthily, he turned corners, moving aimlessly about the vicinity with no purpose or destination in mind. His head filled with temptation in regards to his guest, he needed the movement to distract.

He first ran into a band of silly ballet girls, whose frivolous conversation and eager high-pitched giggles sent his somber sensibilities into a tailspin. Not wanting to waste time to their nonsensical manners, he turned away. He would have stomped, but nature had denied him the ability to do so.

In his wandering, he heard a woman's unmistakable cry. For a moment, he wondered if he should investigate. Did he not have enough problems on his hands? But his dealings with Rosalie had softened him considerably, and human curiosity overcame morbid pessimism. With greater caution, he proceeded in the direction of the cry and came across a couple at the staircase leading to the basement. All prior thoughts and pent-up frustration vanished. Carefully treading closer, he listened for their dialogue, but they spoke in such rapid, frenzied whispers, all was lost on him, though he sensed something amiss.

Obviously two lovers, who in their anxiety to be alone wandered too far, hovering dangerously close to what Erik considered "forbidden" territory. The man was tall, and though Erik could not distinguish his features, sensed a weariness about him. He was obviously suffering from love, as the energetic discourse seemed to suggest.

The lady…. Erik strained his neck. If he could but perch over them, he could catch a glimpse of her countenance. It appeared she avoided recognition, for she took great pains in concealing her identity. Cleverly positioned within shadows, the flickering lantern could not produce enough light to reveal a discernable feature. She kept her velvet cloak and hood wrapped tightly about her. Her body rigid, her movement stiff, Erik wondered if her lover threatened her, and momentarily thought of descending on them. But their affairs not his concern, he only made a sudden sound in the hopes of startling them to return to the group they abandoned.

Leaning against a stone beam, he began to tap rhythmically against it, softly at first, then more insistently, menacingly.

At once, the fair hand clasped the gentleman's, and before she could caution him to do otherwise, the man spoke out, turning in the direction of the noise.

"What is it, Madame?" He asked, wondering where the sudden tapping came from.

Once visible, Erik recognized the face of the gentleman. It was none other than Le Commissaire! Finally! But brought to the Opera House by what circumstance…or what person?

Turning his eyes to the lady, he began a serious study of her. Her size, her frame, her nervous movements were consistent with another he knew only too well. But it could not be her. Unless… she had brought Le Commissaire to arrest him, her final act of betrayal.

"Christine," he breathed, quietly, gently, but to the lady, who was all too aware of what transpired, it seemed said to her very ear.

Fain would she have revealed herself to her once lover, but to do so would place his very life in peril. Her hand, still retaining Le Commissaire's arm, gripped the man's ugly coat even tighter, and without speaking a word, pulled him away from the stairs, back towards the people, towards false security.

"Where are we going, Madame Vicomtesse?" Le Commissaire asked dumbly. "Are you not moving in the opposite direction from where you wished to go?"

"Sir, you would do well to lower your voice!" Christine whispered fiercely through clenched teeth. "You do not want to alert others to my presence here. I have told you, I am here to visit my dear friend. I asked her to meet me-"

"In the cellars in the dead of night," he finished for her in complete disbelief. "How convenient."

They soon disappeared, their voices the last to vanish, and all that remained was silent darkness with Erik hiding in a corner.

He stood immobile for several seconds; it seemed more like minutes or hours. The little warmth possessed in his lean form fled until nothing but a deep chill penetrated his heart.

She had returned! Christine had returned! A strange thrill went through him, only to be replaced by malignant fury. She came to have him arrested, or worse.

They would pay. They would all pay.

He followed the couple.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The cold night air chilled Christine to the bone. Fishing out her gloves from her small handbag, she discovered one missing. She quietly chastised herself for her child-like carelessness realizing the trail of crumbs left behind her, but quickly recovering focused on the more pressing concern: how to get rid of the Chief of Police, whose life she was certain she had saved.

She stared at the tall man with his unusually long neck. Certain Erik had no love for the authorities, he would not have thought twice at tying a noose around the gangly anatomy. For that very reason it was impossible for her to return to the Opera House, for his sake as well as hers.

Using her skill as a performer, she assumed a slightly annoyed, yet nonchalant tone when addressing him.

"Since we are bent on honesty this night, might I inquire as to why you are following me?"

Le Commissaire stared hard at the delicate lady. She was more clever and crafty than he anticipated. He cursed himself for his sudden revelation; he should have kept a greater distance between them, but had feared losing her in the dark descent.

"You know as well as I do why I followed. I am trying to find the Comtesse, just as you are."

Christine tightly pressed her lips together before answering. She knew she was under scrutiny, and the slightest mistake could land her, Raoul and Erik in a great deal of trouble. She took great care in protecting all three, especially the latter.

"Monsieur Le Commissaire, let us speak clearly to one another. I do wish for the safe return of my sister-in-law, but I am not so foolish as to engage on such a quest alone, without aid or assistance, and I certainly do not expect to find her in there," she said, pointing back in the direction of the Opera House. Even as she spoke, she felt her face betray her, for although her tone and manner were controlled, the heat rose to her cheeks.

Le Commissaire wondered at her secrecy. What was she protecting? There was not a doubt in his mind the Opera House and Miss Daae were connected in some regard, and since she obviously would not share in the connection, he would have to devise a new plan.

"Forgive me, Madame De Chagny. I will no longer importune you. I am sure your friend eagerly awaits your arrival. Allow me to escort you back to the Opera House," he said with stiff gallantry.

Of all the rotten bit of luck! What if Meg was not inside? What lie would she conjure then? And to make her presence known to the entire party! To have all the ballet girls rush to her in a frenzy of excitement. To have the managers brought in to see her! Erik would not forgive her the commotion. He would think she had no respect for his presence. He would be angry, confused, resentful, and what nightmarish scene would unfold? Forcing a quick curtsey, Christine added, "_Non Monsieur_, that will not be necessary."

"But I insist. It is dangerous, and you without your husband…"

And so a new disagreement ensued, with the parties oblivious to the flaming eyes watching from a distance.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Rosalie's eyes remained wide open. She was dressed for bed in her simple pale yellow nightgown, obtained from the drawers of Christine's unclaimed wardrobe. The covers wrapped about her, the pillows properly inclined, sleep proved impossible. Her mind still a jumble of questions, her feelings a storm of flurries. Issuing a frustrated grunt, she cast aside the bed sheets, stretching stiff limbs.

Only one person occupied her thoughts: the man - her host - her kidnapper - her husband's murderer.

Erik.

She thought of his pain, of his past, of the events shaping him into the person he now was. She thought of the words they exchanged, of looks, of strange feelings evoked, and strong stirrings in her heart. Were those stirrings isolated to that organ!

Rosalie was an intelligent being. She could not deny the true reason sleep eluded her. She knew what she felt, though she reprimanded its illogicality. It was the longing of a woman. The need to be touched and held. The need to be reassured.

She was filled with want.

The knowledge distressed her. How was it possible? How could she desire a man who murdered? One who lived beyond societal norms? Who ridiculed morality and expunged God from his soul? To combat the sentiments, she brought to mind every intolerable act he had committed.

But was he evil? He did evil things, but so did every man who lived and breathed. His soul more calloused and hardened, it seemed he desired change. His manner of existence was what he believed to be his only manner. She found perverseness in it, but judged herself more harshly for thrilling at the perverseness itself. The longer she pondered, the worse her thinking became. Each minute spent in quiet contemplation drew her nearer to the iniquitous feelings she struggled against. Alone and abandoned, her mind gave her solace, and as Erik had been her sole companion for the stretch of days, she found comfort in the sudden workings of her imagination, creating scenarios betwixt the two.

She felt the cool, moist beads of sweat form on her brow and between her legs. Her breasts tingled and her breathing became deeper. The back of her hand reaching to wipe the perspiration on her forehead, she rubbed it wearily against her eyes and mouth, struggling for some sense of control, but neither mind nor body seemed willing to listen to spirit.

_The spirit is willing. The spirit is willing_, she repeatedly thought.

"The flesh is weak!" she cried out, delirious.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Erik moved closer to the pair, whose arguments grew tiresome. Obviously, Le Commissaire was eager to assume his return to the Opera House, but Christine delayed. Her tactic puzzled Erik, who longed to approach her, but feared loss of control.

In the soft glow of the moonlight, he saw she retained all her beauty and sweetness. She appeared severely annoyed, frustrated and frightened, but her more elegant qualities rose to the surface.

And where was de Chagny? Why would she leave him behind to trust solely on the chief of police? What plan had they formed against him? He needed to listen. He needed to speak. He would speak to her.

But he would have to eliminate Le Commissaire.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

His patience at an end with her delay tactics, Le Commissaire roughly grabbed Christine's elbow, forcing her to turn in the direction of the fled opera house.

"It is cold, and I am sure your friend is missing you. You shouldn't keep her waiting. She will worry of your whereabouts."

"She is used to my tardiness," Christine said, offering a weak smile.

"Time to change your practice then, heh?"

"Monsieur, I am fine without your assistance, and I rather resent the manner in which you're handling me."

"Oh, forgive me again, Madame!" he said with mock propriety, yet retaining his firm hold. "Once I see you safely inside, I will go about my way."

Rather unlikely, Christine thought. But perhaps if they made it solely to the door, he would then slink into some corner and she could lose him. It was by far, her best and most reasonable plan.

Reluctantly thanking him for his attention, she began her walk across the street. But they had not rounded the first corner, when a gasp fled her lips, as she felt herself being hurled towards the pavement. Unable to break the fall, her head hit the concrete, and she fell into unconsciousness.

A struggle followed in the back alley. Le Commissaire fought desperately to topple the perpetrator who jumped on his back, but the attacker refused to yield. He tried to warn Madame de Chagny to flee to the opera house, but he could not reach for air. Terror filled his heart as he realized something was about his neck.

His eyes rolled back. As they did, he caught a glimpse of the building tops -- the carvings of cherubs and nymphs ominously gazing down on him. He never noticed them before. It seemed an empty mockery as he stood at the brink of death, there were only stone images to witness his final moments, and they all smiled. Casting a desperate glance at them, he implored their help; none came.

He produced a noiseless gag. Spots appeared before his eyes, or were they stars? He felt the wind freeze his body, but was it the wind at all? It could not be denied; he was dying. His body grew cold, his limbs became limp, and he soon submitted to his appointed hour.

Erik released the lifeless body of the Commissaire. He had felt the crush of his windpipe in his hands. He had visualized it closing millimeter by millimeter. As his victim's heartbeat ceased, his raced all the more.

Turning the body over with his foot to hide the man's wide-eyed fearful expression, he recalled Christine's still form, and walked coldly over to her. Lifting her into his arms, he examined the bruise on her forehead. His face altered into a strange expression.

He stared at her face, so still, so silent; sensations rushed through him all at once, and he felt his body give an involuntary jerk.

Pulling out a handkerchief, he pressed it against her bleeding forehead. The white cloth against the wound reminded him of another woman, whose wound he had gently tended to in a similar manner. When he looked down at the face again, he saw that of another.

"Rosalie," he mumbled.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o

"Erik!" Rosalie gasped from her bed. She hoped he would not tarry much longer, and yet she feared to see him. Control at this point was flimsy at best.


	22. Part 17: His Former Love

Part 17 – His Former Love

Opening her eyes, Christine felt a pressure above the right socket. Every body part ached, every muscle tensed, and as she stirred to consciousness, tried to come to terms with where she was and what had happened.

_Le __Commissaire_ Suddenly bolting upright, her head narrowly missed a wooden beam resting several inches above her. The sight caused her to gasp, and she looked around the darkened room, terrified.

"_Mon __Dieu_, where am I?" she cried aloud.

Her echoing voice the only answer received from afar. Reaching out around her, she felt several wooden beams running diagonally across, and recollected the attics of the Opera House. Only one person could have brought her there, her suspicions confirmed at noticing the rope expertly binding her leg to the makeshift cot she laid on.

She gave another quick glimpse about the room, but saw nothing but the beams and bits of sunlight breaking through the high windows. She heard nothing but her own quick breath. She knew Le Commissaire was dead, though she hoped against hope it would be otherwise. The knowledge filled her with immense grief, more for Erik than the poor man, but she then wondered if it were not possible for him to kill once more -- to kill her, Raoul, Rosalie, everyone.

Her mind gave a second sudden shocked thought to her baby, and she instinctively brought her hands to her belly. She felt the protruding roundness of her womb, and even more thankfully, the flutter of her skin as the baby moved.

Her baby moved. Her baby was alive.

_Foolish Christine!_ She called to herself. _Your stupid plan has cost a man his life, and will probably cost more. _Why? Why hadn't she listened to Raoul? She longed for her husband to put his arms around her and fill her with safety. She longed for the warmth of their home. But she could not go back now, even if she wanted to. Too much had been sacrificed already. She had to find Rosalie, and once again she pulled at her bond with more urgency.

From across the room, Erik watched. He had not revealed himself yet, fighting for composure. He saw her clutch her mid-section.

_She was pregnant!_ He knew the second he lifted her that she was in state, but to know his little Christine was truly the property of another, joined in union, filled him with a new sense of disgust.

All the more reason her stupid husband would come searching for her… again. History had a way of repeating itself, but this time he would not allow her to leave unscathed. Not again. She broke a promise, breeched a contract. He would not be so forgiving.

"Miss Daae, forgive me, _Madame de __Chagny_," Erik hissed the new surname, venom pouring from every syllable. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Christine clearly heard, but could not see. She loathed his ventriloquist games. Doing her best to remain calm, she cleared her throat and clearly stated,

"Erik, I would like to see you please."

"Whatever for?"

"It would make it easier to talk."

"Did you come to talk to me?" he sneered.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Is that why you brought the Chief of Police as an escort, to talk?" Before she could offer a reply he stated, "Perhaps the time for talking is long past us, Madame. Perhaps it is time for action and not words."

"Do you never tire of action Erik?" she asked, knowing fully well he did. "Your actions have brought a man's life to an end."

"_Au contraire, Madame_. But for your folly, the man would still live. You women invade my territory, bringing idiots with you, and I am to blame when all ends up in chaos."

Christine heard the bitterness of his tones, believing him to recollect the last time she had been in his Lair, but the plurality of the feminine noun not lost to her, she gathered fresh hope.

"Rosalie is alive!" she cried out. "Just as I knew her to be! Thank you, Erik!"

He remained momentarily quiet, uncertain how to receive her sincere gratitude. Unable to scorn her concern for others, he found merit in her self-sacrifice and brave, if not reckless, actions. His anger waned, and he was not so heartless as to torture a woman in state. Ironically, her expectancy brought fresh agony to him. Feeling his heart pierce, he moved away, stating, "I am releasing you. Return to your husband and never more think of me."

"I can't do that," she said quietly, her head bowed in strange reverence; it occurred to him she might be praying.

Erik stilled at her bold declaration. Impudent girl! "And why not?" he questioned, attempting to control the strange knot formed in his throat.

Never lifting her head she returned, "Rosalie-"

His flaming eyes narrowed. "She is not your concern."

"She is my concern! She's family! Erik, you can't keep her. She's not a stay you've found somewhere."

"Thank you for the illustration. However, I have no intention of 'keeping her' as you so eloquently suggest. She is my guest for several days. She is unharmed. That is all you need to know."

"Unharmed?" Christine asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "I find that hard to believe. You call this unharmed," she asked pulling at the binding about her ankle, and pointing at the bruise on her head. "And what of Le Commissaire?"

"You should not have come," he seethed in such a way she heard it at her ear. His temper resurfacing at her stubbornness, he returned to aggression. "Christine, if you do not leave and state your trip was in vain, you will have to worry about more than a mere scratch above you forehead. Think of your family now, and let that be an end with you."

"I can't turn away and leave her here."

"Your husband will come looking for you. He will not come kindly. You do understand what I am saying. I cannot be responsible for what will transpire if you and your band of hapless nitwits do not listen. The Comtesse will soon be among all you happy-folk, as if nothing were ever amiss. Everyone will return to normalcy, and you can go about having more babies, filling all of France with de Chagnies."

"Erik-" Christine began in protest, realizing she did not deem him an explanation. There was nothing to explain. Erik knew what she struggled to say, aiding her.

"What is more natural than a man lying down with his wife? It is a most commonplace occurrence." His tone offered no consolation.

_And yet you are wounded_, Christine thought, by no means surprised to find him at the foot of the bedding, her head rising at the sight of him. He had not changed, shrouded in black from head to toe in his gentleman's attire, his air and stance ever ominous and threatening. She watched as he sat on the bed next to her, and with his look of lightning and fire, turned to gaze at her womb. Her body shivered at his presence.

"It is a happy moment for you both," he stated, his voice a mix of hurt and amazement, and raising a gloved hand, let it fall on her belly. The baby chose that moment to jump. Erik instantly pulled his hand away, jolting at the feel of the kick. Christine saw the glimmer of a blade, only momentarily quivering at its sight, until he slashed through her bond.

"I will see you to your coach. Once gone, you are not to return."

"Please Erik-" she tried again.

"Enough, woman! I grow tired of your pleas." Reaching for the back of her head, he gave it a firm yank. He heard the frightened gasp she gave at his forcefulness, and felt her warm breath reach his under the mask; he could practically taste her. His hands were filled with what he believed he loved most, and yet the knowledge made him wish to hasten her departure. Speaking into her ear said, "Once upon a time, you did all I bid of you."

Looking bravely at him, Christine countered, "You deceived me then. You're deceiving yourself now. Rosalie is your prisoner, not your guest. If given the choice, she'll leave. I know her character, and I'm sure you've seen it for yourself as well, if you haven't hypnotized her. For God's sake Erik, you've made her a widow! What woman in her right mind would stay with a man who would do such a thing?"

Erik released her and walked away. Christine could hear the rustle of his black cape, though not his steps, and she knew he struggled to keep himself calm. Soon he was at her elbow, menacing.

"If you continue in your interference, I will make a widow of _you_, and you will never more see your sister-in-law," he threatened. She felt the cold steel of the blade press against her leg, then run up her thigh. "Now we will leave, Madame, to wait for your husband at the station, neither one of you ever to return. Until she is with you, think of her as good as dead, as I am."

"And the promise with your ring?" she asked, angered and distressed at his refusal at compliance.

"You have broken your oath, I will release you of mine. Take the accursed ring, burn it, sell it, or bury it beneath the earth, alongside yourself and your husband." And before she could protest any further, she felt a prick in her arm. Drugs, she was certain, and tried to swat the needle away, though it was too late. The room spun and blurred, and she felt herself floating.


	23. Part 18: His Old Rival

Part 18 – His Old Rival

The midday train noisily chugged into the station, slowing to a complete stop. The first passenger out of the car leapt over the steps, practically running through the platforms. Raoul de Chagny feared every passing second put his wife's life in greater jeopardy.

Ignoring the warm sunshine or the clarity of the day, he ran to the nearest coach, though no driver sat there. Before Raoul turned to seek the missing occupant's whereabouts, he saw the door to the coach swing wide open, and heard an unmistakable voice issue an invitation inside.

Raoul readily put his hand to his breast pocket, feeling for the pistol he brought with him. This was a trap of the strangest design.

"Foolish man, leave your weapon alone. I have what you've come looking for. No one's life is in danger - yet. Do not attempt heroics, and you and your wife will find peace and solitude once again in the hidden alcove of your home. Any brash moves may prevent from meeting with such a secure, satisfying ending."

Raoul, both angered at the ghost's presumptions, but hopeful at his words, did as bid, and jumped inside the coach, locking the door behind him. He found Christine, asleep, her head resting on Erik's shoulder. The cozy position between the two bothered the Vicomte excessively. It seemed all rather unnatural.

Disregarding orders to avoid sudden movements, he rushed to his wife's side, pulling her away from the man he viewed as the devil himself. Erik rolled his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics, as Raoul pinched his wife's cheeks, caressed her forehead, and repeatedly asked the young woman if she could hear him. Christine's eyes would momentarily flutter, but no more.

"You monster! What have you done to her?" he readily accused.

"You should keep better watch of your wife. Really, what kind of husband allows his pregnant partner to slip away in the dead of the night, attempting to rescue damsels in no need of such salvation, and to confront highly dangerous madmen?"

Raoul felt his face flush, both at the reproach and in indignation.

"You would mock Christine's selflessness."

"No doubt she is the most selfless creature I ever beheld. She did more than you even offered to."

Raoul bristled but remained silent, humbled and shamed.

Knowing he prevailed in the battle of words, Erik addressed the young Vicomte's initial question.

"She is drugged with a sedative." Seeing the man's mouth open to protest, he cut him off by adding, "No harm will come to the baby. It is not so potent. In half an hour's time she will be alert. In half an hour's time you two should be speedily out of Paris. I have issued your wife a stern warning to never return. I hope you will do a better job affirming the mandate."

"Who the hell do you think you are to give orders-"

"You know exactly who I am. You yourself claimed me a monster. Do not forget it is more than my deformity that grants me such reputation. I have no qualms in killing. Do not tempt me, Vicomte. Your life means nothing to me. But for this girl, you'd have long been dead."

"Yes, as you killed my brother," Raoul retorted, his anger rising again. How he longed to avenge his brother's death, the sensation of the pistol burning against his breast.

Erik waved his hand, the accusation falling on deaf ears. "I do not feel remorse as others do either. Save your breath, man, and leave before I alter the deed."

Raoul instinctively clutched his wife closer to him, her steady breath and well-known scent bringing relief, thus cooling his anger. But he thought of his sister-in-law, alone in the dark dampness of the Phantom's caverns, left to his menacing hands. He needed to do something, having failed her too many times already.

"Rosalie-" he began.

Erik's eyes narrowed. The glowing slits penetrated through the younger man.

"The Comtesse and I have our own understanding. She is my sole concern at this moment. Neither she nor I require your meddling."

His words brought terror into Raoul's heart. What did he mean by an "understanding"? Had he forced himself on her? Certainly he did not mean to keep her for wedlock, he seemed beyond reason. The young Vicomte and diva's marriage had sent the opera ghost into the abyss of madness.

"Though my actions imply otherwise, I love my sister. Please do not bring any harm to her. Please release her. Let her return with us."

"I doubt the mountains and trees of the north will satisfy the Lady's fiery spirit. Your offer sounds more like torture. No, she is better off as she is. When she does leave, you will know."

Raoul remained comfortless by the admission, but knew Erik held all the cards. He, his wife and baby were all in a vulnerable position. With each word exchanged, the desire to pump a bullet into the monster's heart grew, but realizing the attempt would seal everyone's fate, he stayed himself, hoping to fare better odds later.

"I comply with your demands."

"Request, young Vicomte. It is a request."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The master tarried in returning to his domain with Rosalie left to wander aimlessly through the quiet apartment. She soon realized he had been out for quite some time. Troubled, she feared something happened, but feared more for his eventual return, unsure of her own reaction in seeing him.

Her mind continuously attuned to her actions from the previous night, she felt excessively wicked and exceedingly dirty. Prior to dressing, she bathed for an unusually long time, trying to wash away her impure thoughts. But no amount of bathing could remove the man who sent her sensations plummeting into an orgy of want.

With a heavy heart she sat in the drawing room, only to stand seconds later. She pushed a perfectly placed pin back into her hair, feeling the coil of her long braid. Nervous, edgy, and distracted, she pulled all the pins out of her hair, loosening the braid in the hopes of alleviating her pounding headache, but nothing worked.

Several hours passed, her heart and conscience her only company. They whispered to her the source of her guilt. Her heart had filled with another. She traded her husband's stiff nobility for an impassioned murderer, physical beauty for unjust deformity. She pondered the matter until she realized the love felt for her husband had not been love at all, rather, the calm affection of a complacent wife, content with her comfortable surroundings. She felt for him as she did for Eustache, and of the latter, she was sorry to admit, she seldom brought to mind.

Fresh shame pouring over, she fled, as if she could evade her thoughts. Blindly turning to the first room found, she flung the door open. It was his room. No longer able to fight the tears, she threw herself at his organ and wept bitterly.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

The train rolled along, reaching the city limits. Inside the first-class car all remained perfectly still and quiet. Raoul sat with his wife resting upon him, and he worried she would not wake. If the Phantom had lied, there would be swift retribution for his deception. But long last, his wife began to mumble and turn, until her eyes flew open.

"Erik!" she cried at first, until focusing on her husband she then whispered, "Raoul. Oh Raoul. Forgive me, please forgive me," and she burst into tears, burying her face into her husband's chest.

Raoul's immediate relief forgave her all. Caressing the top of his wife's hair, he begged her to cease all tears, constantly reassuring her of their safety and all was as it should be.

"But it isn't, Raoul! It isn't!" she moaned. "Le Commissaire is dead, and it is all my fault!"

"Dead?" Raoul repeated in horrified shock.

Christine nodded, her features sorrowful and pale.

"He followed me to the Opera House, and Erik…." Her sentence remained unfinished, drowned out by new wails.

"Dearest, dearest do calm down. The baby. You must think of the baby. Nothing more can be done."

"No, Raoul. Things cannot remain this way. The police must be notified! He-he must be stopped. He must," Christine declared coldly, though her heart beat wildly. "We must break our oath. We must, Raoul."

Raoul failed to respond, but in his heart knew Christine was right.

"We must."

The train continued its rhythmic movement.


	24. Part 19Sec1:Eruptions, Ignitions

Part 19/Section 1: Eruptions, Ignitions and Fanning the Flames

Darkness reigned when Erik returned. Upon entering the apartment, he found all ablaze -- candles lighted at every corner and the few fireplaces aglow with a small, but cheery light. A modest meal of beef stew and baked biscuits remained untouched at the table, and Erik noted the two place settings, though the lady remained nowhere to be found.

He supposed her fast asleep in her chamber and thought it best, tired as he was from dealing with people's incompetence. Disrobing himself of his cloak and hat, he then turned to his room, seeking solace in his one comfort: his music.

But it appeared Erik would find no repose or tranquility, for at his beloved instrument lay the Comtesse, a perfect heap over his organ.

It seemed sacrilegious she should lie on his most cherished possession - she, the source of his new afflictions, his current torment. All too sensible of having envisioned her countenance in Christine's place, Erik wondered how and when he allowed his sensibilities to ensnare. His heart ached, recalling Christine's words regarding Rosalie's feelings for him, an affirmation of his own whispered doubts.

In a few steps, he was at her side nudging her somewhat roughly to wake. Rosalie's eyes opened with alarming suddenness, her relaxed muscles stiffening in surprise. She lifted her head looking about the room in obvious confusion, but when her eyes found his in the darkness, they brimmed with tears.

"Erik…," she breathed.

Grabbing her forearm, he pulled her to a stand, studying her countenance. Lines framed her eyes and forehead, her lips drained from their ruby red color. She appeared troubled and weary, and yet he read something ardent hiding behind the tired expression, seemingly ready to explode.

All the while Rosalie hungrily searched the eyes of the man who created a storm of emotions inside of her. She saw fire in his look, but also read anger mixed with sheer hatred. The thrill felt in seeing him mingled with terror. At their close proximity a number of different aromas reached her nostrils. She smelled musk and the night breeze, but the distinct fragrance of a woman's perfume struck most prominent - and most troubling.

Still retaining her in his grasp, Erik allowed his second hand to travel to the top of her head. He brought it down against her temple, caressing her cheek, thumbing her chin, tracing her lips. Rosalie gave an involuntary shudder, wantonly parting her lips as if his fingers commanded her to. Her skin's nerve endings heightened when he relaxed his hold on her arm, sliding it past her elbow, resting behind her back. Without knowing how, she felt herself drawn near him. In a semi-rapturous state, she closed her eyes, drawing a sharp inhale, but in doing so, caught the stronger scent of the perfume, which she could not ignore.

"Where is Christine?" she asked, still maintaining her eyes closed, terrified what he would respond.

All at once, the hand tenderly caressing her chin closed about her throat as suddenly as an alligator snapping its jaw. The pressured hold instantly reminded her who he was, and what he was very capable of.

Erik's mind – presently filled with Christine's admonishments -- turned a steely glare at the Comtesse. Yet his voice eerily calm, he asked,

"What is it you want, Madame _de Chagny_?" purposely addressing her by her married name, for he was at his wits end with all Madame de Chagny's and their nitwitted husbands - dead or otherwise.

Rosalie's hands clamped around the death hold in a vain attempt to free from his grasp. She could not cry out, let alone answer his question.

"What do you desire from me? Do you demand my blood? Would you be bold enough to take my life if given the opportunity?"

The Lady did not understand the course of these dark questions. She did not believe there existed a solid camaraderie between the two, but she thought them long past murdering threats. Something had transpired above to bring sinister thoughts back into his mind. How she longed to answer, but he tightened his grip, barely limiting her ability to breathe.

Dread filled her heart. She pried and clawed at the hand holding her with controlled force. Such control did he possess he managed to move her from the organ further back into the room, only stopping when Rosalie's bottom roughly hit another object. She knew what is was without seeing it, but still allowed one hand to move away from his retaining hold, the cool wood behind her slick against her sweaty palm.

"Do you know what it is like to lay in the presence of death every night? After some time the world of the living and the dead resemble one another, with death possessing a greater and finer appeal."

Feeling the pressure relieve a bit around her neck, Rosalie instinctively drew breath; when Erik released her completely, she surprised them both by leaping over the coffin to the other side, the bedding creating an insecure barrier between Lady and gentleman.

"Erik," she panted, "Erik, listen to me. I am not against you. I do not know what has occurred, but if you would tell me-"

He continued with his musings. "Death comes to all, swifter to some than others. Would your husband have lived to old age had I not interfered? Would Le Commissaire have freed you had I exercised merciful restraint?"

"You killed Le Commissaire?" Rosalie shrieked in horror. Her blood froze at the discovery, but more at the cold tone in which revealed it.

"With so many enemies as he had, it was only a matter of time before someone drew blood," Erik continued aloofly, without remorse or visible affliction.

Rosalie covered her ears, unable to accept his confession. She fought against the words, hoping they would disappear, not wanting to believe he reverted to his former, criminal ways. She fought against the sickening sensation creeping in her stomach.

Who was this man who believed himself amongst the gods with the power to take life, and perhaps believing he could give it as well?

"What have you done with Christine?" she cried out a second time, anger and defiance igniting boldness.

Hearing the name again brought him back to the present, and he recalled where last he saw the young woman.

"You need not fear your pretty head over her. She and her husband presently travel north. Once there, they will resolve to forget everything except each other and the baby on the way."

At the word "baby," Rosalie clasped her heart. _A baby_. She felt wonder at Christine's miracle, pity for Erik's pain, envy for her own barren state. Succumbing to heightened emotions, she collapsed. Her hands attempted to grab the coffin for support, but Erik descended on her, choosing to hold her with his own stiff limbs.

She writhed in his grasp despising his murdering touch, but she could not loosen herself from his stone grip, and thus prepared her verbal assault.

"When will you end this madness?" She pushed against his breast, desperately attempting to place space between them. The nearness of their bodies stirred excitement, and her voice increased in agitation. "When will you learn you do not hold the authority to end a person's life? What power do you believe you have been granted? What curse has possessed your mind?"

His initial reply to strain her closer to him, he ignored her gasps and whimpers and answered. "I do these things by the power denied me. Too long have I fled. I tired of fleeing. I have found freedom in doing what others long to do in their hearts. Do not judge me, Comtesse. Do not feign self-righteousness when you yourself have longed for nothing more than my very death. Before you arrived here, you sat at your bedside and plotted for days, for weeks, for months, for swift penalty to come my way, pleading with your God to make it so. An eye for an eye."

Rosalie did not deny it. Fueled by anger and frustration, she countered, answering, "At this moment, I would gladly seal the lid over your cold, lifeless body. It would be an honor most cherished!"

The burning eyes enflamed; he responded, "We shall see," and dragging her out of the room, he pulled her to the kitchen. Scouring the counters, he located the sharpest knife, thrusting the cold blade in her hands.

"Go, Madame. Do what others have only dreamed of."

Rosalie stared at the knife blade in her hand. Her fingers tightened about the wooden handle, envisioning the cool tip puncturing skin and muscle.

"There will come a day when I will tire of fighting as well. Someone will find me, and I shall succumb."

"You wait for me to strike to defend?" Rosalie questioned, believing he set a trap. Even so, she clasped the weapon more tightly. "You are clever."

"No. I offer you a taste into my world. I pose a threat to you and those you love. Take measurable defense. Certainly your God will not judge you." Clutching her hand in his, he positioned her hand to his neck.

"Stop it, Erik!" Rosalie screamed. "Do not mock God's mercy!"

"Mercy? What mercy has been shown to my life?" He pointed at his wood covering. "You call what lies behind the mask merciful? If you believe in mercy, then you would plunge that knife deep into my vein."

In some strange, sordid way, his words made perfect sense. Why should he continue living in suffering and isolation? She could end it all and no one would ever judge her. She'd be hailed a hero, praised with the honor of yielding a murderer and exorcizing a phantom. But then she thought of others who suffered similar fates. Certainly this man was not the only one with a gross deformity. He had an entire book dedicated to the subject. All those victims were not madmen; some chose to rise above their hardships using their sufferings to educate others. Why couldn't he? He had true genius, God-given intelligence. Why could he not persuade others with his voice of the goodness existing in his soul? Perhaps the answer was simply because he had none. Perhaps he was beyond redemption. Troubled by the idea, she raised her hand. A cry of frustration filled the room as Rosalie… flung the knife to the other extreme of the kitchen. Frightened and incensed, she needed a release for her anger. She reached back and slapped Erik with all of her might, sending the mask flying clear across the room.

Erik did his best to shield his face from her, but found he could not. Instead, he stood tall to meet her eyes, her vision never wavering from his monstrous visage. Since meeting her, Erik felt a loss of power due solely to the loss of his mask; he immediately released her and dove for his protection.

"And now we are even. That's for wallowing in self-pity," she cried, watching him recover his mask with trembling hands. "If I were to strike you for your crimes, I'd pummel you to death."

"I warned you of removing my mask again," he raged. Once he secured it firmly in place, he felt the slow return of his limited senses.

"What do I care what you threaten me with?" she challenged. "As God is my witness, you will hear what I have to say, especially if these words are my last. You say you tire of fleeing, but you flee from yourself. If you cannot bear your life, then put an end to it at once. Stop being a coward - killing men when they least suspect it and holding women who can not physically compete against you," she snarled. "Were that not shameful enough, you ask me to end your life. You are clever indeed. Since you have no wish to go to heaven, you would make sure you bring me with you in hell, one life of captivity with you evidently not enough to satisfy."

"You tread very dangerous ground," he warned.

"Whatever you are to do, do it!" she screamed, daring him to action. "Prove to me you have no love and compassion in your heart! Show me you are exactly what everyone believes you to be! Fill the void you constantly feel and feed by drawing blood. Whether yours or mine, it matters all little to me." She moved dangerously close to him.

Anger, humiliation, pride took over, compounded all by his struggle with madness. Staring at her shortly, he recognized the contempt in her voice mixed with suffering. She suffered for him. She tried to bring some redemption to him and could not. He was beyond the reach of grace. Incensed as he was and not quite ready to end the argument of which she believed herself victor, he answered with venomous derision:

"I have another need that longs for filling."

His words, his look from behind the mask, were enough to make Rosalie believe he meant to plunge into wild license. Knowing if he did attempt to take her, she would not have the will to resist, she made a motion to fly, barely making it to the door when he grabbed her, pulling her roughly to him. Rosalie did all she could to strike back, but Erik readied for the assault. Each hand brought down swiftly caught, turned and pinned above her, and with only a moment's tussle, pulled her to the hard floor.

Ignoring cries of protest, Erik lifted her skirts above her thighs. Covered in stockings, he could still see the well-defined curves of her legs, their jerking movement received by his own long pair as he lay over her. Damn woman, she _would_ submit, but if she did not, so much the better.

Rosalie heard the rustling of her fabric, felt it bunched around her, and as Erik leaned down, she felt the unmistakable hardening of his arousal. She grew cold with terror, but hot with want. The spirit and flesh waged battle within her.

"Erik! Erik, please," she said in an effort to bring both of them to reason. "Erik, do not force this on me." Although she cried against the act, her tone spoke otherwise. Still, she continued, hoping to harden her heart to his sensual touch.

His response to shift his weight on hers, causing the pressure of his solid shaft to meet her center. But his dominance short-lived when the lady drew a breath, and lifted herself towards him as if to feel more.

Her remonstrations silenced, she instead murmured pleas, and Erik froze in light of this most unexpected change. He cursed himself. Hadn't he learned nothing ever went as planned with this woman?


	25. Part 19 Sec 2: The Struggle Continues

Part 19/Section 2

Rosalie's eyelids fluttered wildly, her mounting desire inhibiting reason. Barely able to lift herself from under Erik's weight, she instead encouraged him to lower towards her.

Erik, too, rapidly felt the surrender of passion as a wave of libidinous pleasure and raw desire washed over him. It would be so easy to take her, to hammer away the years of lust and frustration inside her, fill her empty womb. There would be no contest in the physical challenge. He could ravage her numerous times, satisfy his manly desires, and send her back to the above world as damaged goods… a satisfying revenge to the de Chagny lineage. 

Temptation stood by his side. Neither whispering nor sweet, it yelled to his heart and intellect to fulfill and complete all his designs and yearnings. What did it matter if he acted only on flesh, on pure animal instinct? He, the murderer of many, the extortionist, who took delight in the suffering of others, now balked at the idea of lying with a beautiful woman writhing beneath him. And she, gazed at him blazing with a fire rivaling his own.

But he could not. No matter what his quivering form demanded, no matter what sense awakened within him, Erik could not fathom her apparent desire for him. What he imagined she would receive as a loathsome threat, backfired in a way he never imagined possible. She seemingly dared him, nay, _wanted_ him to act upon his words. How could her body react in such a manner in light of his persona, and even more so, his hideously monstrous countenance? 

A shot of fear washed over the Opera Ghost. Knowing the Comtesse witnessed his cowardice he abruptly rose in one swift motion. As he still retained the Comtesse's hands, he savagely pulled her to her feet.

"Erik!" she cried in unexpected surprise.

"You have worn out your welcome, Madame. Perhaps it is time we set you on your way!" he cried, barely allowing Rosalie to secure her step. He moved towards the gondola, taking commanding strides. The Comtesse's pace unable to keep with his own, she continually stumbled.

His words, the words Rosalie dreamt to hear, now sounded the most terrifying of all threats received. It pained her heart in a manner she could not explain. But she ceased all attempts to comprehend the ironies and contradictions of life. She learned the short existence of man was filled with mysterious problems, the sums of which were unanswerable. Her attraction and desire made perfect sense to her deluded, exhausted mind.

"_Non, monsieur! __Je ne peux pas aller de cette maniere_" She gasped, barely able to draw enough breath to put two words together at the rate he pulled her.

Deeming no return reply, Erik grabbed her by her waist, lifting her into the gondola. Letting go too early, Rosalie's backside hit the back edge of the boat -- hard. Her frenzied mind ignored the pain coursing through her back and tailbone, and she immediately sprang to her feet, a tangled mess of emotions. Everything happening so suddenly, it was difficult to know exactly how to feel, but of one thing she was certain. She would not leave him in such fashion.

"Erik, please. Please! I understand seeing Christine has caused great distress-"

"_You understand nothing! For once, be quiet and do as you are told!"_ he roared, seeking domination, but Rosalie was not one to give in to demands with feminine complacency.

Though her heart shook and her stomach lurched with nervousness, she stayed her step and answered in the quietest of voices, "If I always did as bid, I would never have found you."

The contrived evenness of her voice, the gentle tones she used to meet his hostile cries, or perhaps the mere simplicity of the response, rendered Erik motionless and silent. By no means a Biblically principled man, Erik recognized the proverb put to action, "A soft answer turneth away wrath."

"Speak." He commanded firmly. "I will listen, but only for a moment."

However, Rosalie had no intentions of preaching. Her message was to be told through actions. Her heart pummeled in her very ears, certain he could hear it as well. But the laborious uprising she felt in her pelvis could not be quenched, and more so, neither could she cool the tender affection in her heart. Terrified, lest he should deny her entrance, Rosalie set out to try.

Erik's golden eyes dimmed and narrowed in suspicious shock when Rosalie dared take a precarious step closer to him. The boat swayed at her unsure footing. 

"Madame, I do not know what games you play, but it would be best if you put all such notions at an end," he threatened in a dull roar.

Rosalie's sole response was to reach for Erik's gloved hand. So slowly did she do it, so carefully, he could not recall how she managed to slip off the glove. What was apparent was the fire coursing through his long, cold fingers as she interlocked hers with his. 

"Too long have you only known pain and suffering. Too long have you experienced the cruelty of man's fear. I want you to accept the love denied you," she whispered, her voice timid but husky.

"I am neither patient nor passive in temperament. I have struck you once. Do not force me to an action we will both rue," Erik warned, altering his voice in attempt to will her to submission.

All warning proved futile. The fire could not be extinguished. For days, Rosalie dwelled in the den of iniquity, discovering what true madness and genius were. Her mind received information never known. Her body propelled to sensations never felt. She would not deny herself the pleasure _now_ simply because he wished it otherwise. And if her brazen actions resulted in death due to his insecure sanity, so be it. Having tested his world, she knew the "normal" existence up above would hold little charm and pleasure for her. She felt more accepted, more understood there in the lonely isolation of his damp domain, than in the luxurious splendors of the great homes of her previous life.

"I do not fear he who can kill the body," she said in a voice so unlike her very own.

"And he who can kill both body and soul?"

His words, meant to frighten her, served only to fuel her resolve. She felt them in her body, her heart, her soul.

With a shake of her head, she responded, "Again, you flatter yourself. You cannot kill the soul. That is reserved to the individual who turns away from God's love."

"Woman, do you hear yourself?" Erik cried in stupefied frustration. "Use your religious principles to your advantage. God does not approve of the thoughts you give solace to."

Releasing his hand, she slipped her own behind his neck, feeling under the cotton linen of his jacket with the gentlest caress. Erik winced behind his mask, the contact simultaneously scalding and freezing his skin. He had to put an end to such foolishness. If he gave into her demands, the consequences would be unthinkable.

Any further argument pointless, Erik's response was to push her away and grab the oar of the gondola. 

Possessed by want and need, she immediately sprang to her feet, feeling no self-pride. Never had she wanted a man as she did him, and by God, she would have him or die trying.

Stretching out her arms, she reached for the oar to stop him in his determination to return her to the surface. Erik intercepted her hand, only to meet with the other. But in doing so, Rosalie leaned into him. Losing her balance, she tipped the boat over, sending both parties headfirst into the lake's frigid water.


	26. Part 20: Consuming Madness

_**Author's Note**: Forgive the delay, and thank you for your patience and understanding._

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Chapter 20: Consuming Madness

Issuing strong, powerful strokes, Erik pulled his way to the surface. The cold submersion struck his body like needles to the skin, but ignoring the stinging sensation, he sliced through the water reaching for air.

Once filling his lungs with oxygen, and thus securing his safety, he began a feverish search for the Comtesse. The dark waters and dim lighting of the caverns made visibility impossible. Fearing her submerged, Erik repeatedly plunged into the frigid abyss of the lake. After his third attempt, he rested on the capsized vessel, catching his rapid pants; the sounds of splashing and stumbling reached his ears, and he turned his gaze towards the shore where he saw the Comtesse stumbling onto the sandy surface, her waterlogged vestments catching her ankles and tripping her.

Relief gladdened his spirits and revived him and he maneuvered his way in her direction hoping to ascertain her condition; make certain she had not suffered any injuries. Once at the lake's edge, he caught the amused expression on her face causing a sudden shift in sentiments. Ire replaced tender compassion and by the time he reached her only stark fury remained.

"Stupid woman!" he spat in vituperation. "Is this an amusement for you?"

Rosalie pulled the sopping locks away from her face, water droplets spattering behind her. The coy smile that played on her lips disappeared. Still catching her breath, feeling cold both physically and emotionally, she shook and stammered, "N-no. W-why would… you think that?"

Hovering over her menacingly, Erik glowered. "I do not like games where I cannot be victor."

Something in the dark man's tone empowered and thrilled her. It was an eerily sinister declaration meant to frighten her, but instead she grew excited and flushed under his vitality. Her confused emotions floundered, her heart fluttered wildly and her trembling form continued to shake from its foundation. Having managed to detain him, she would now let him claim his prize. God help her, Erik would learn what it meant to conquer and possess.

Leaning further against the ground, she rested on her elbows. A seductive smile returning to her rosy lips, she parted her long legs, her long wet gown pooling between them. "I play no games, Erik. The tide has turned and I willingly surrender. Take as you like."

The auriferous eyes fired from behind the mask. The words were undeniable, their tone unmistakable. Why did God delight in tormenting him? He had not expected _this_ blatant attack from _her_. She spoke of submission, but dominated, alluded to victory, yet waged war.

It still seemed to Erik a paltry lie. He knew the tricks of women. They teased and seduced and once they ensnared, they turned to their pious virtues. Did she think him incapable of lascivious action, mistaking him for a eunuch? The dormant sensation between his legs violently wakened, were she not careful, he would unleash himself with such vengeance he'd split her.

And yet that was exactly what Rosalie desired. Her longing warmed her own center, and without laying a finger, Erik had roused her from her quiescence. She had cared for her husband and had laid with him with all the calm complacency proper for a woman in her rank and station, but never had she acted upon seduction or played coy. Those were improper actions for a woman of noble blood and religious upbringing. For better or worse, she had long stopped listening to her devout teachings. Instead, she wanted to act on her impulses, to follow her instincts without fear or reprimand. And her reasoning, her long steady friend, she cast aside with all other restrictions. Rising from the ground with firm decision, she began to disrobe.

"Fix your gaze upon me. I dare you to look away." Mad with need, she peeled away the soaked black covering. No longer a woman in mourning, it seemed unnecessary to wear it. Desire made her skin hot.

The warning proved unnecessary for Erik. Even if he wanted to look away, he could not. He viewed her wet form under the chemise and corset, as the garment clung like second skin to her frame. Her body was in perfect form: long, lean, and trim. Oh, he had undressed her before, but circumstances were much different _then_. This moment was all temptation, at her doing.

With one energetic tug, she loosened the laces on her corset. The heavy material seemed to resound through the cave as it hit the floor.

Feeling the sweat drip down his face, Erik almost peeled the mask off to wipe his forehead. His center throbbed and shifted as he watched her pull down the straps of her chemise. Having seen enough, he grabbed her hands, raising the straps back to her shoulders.

"This is idiocy, madness and _sin_!" he cried, adding the latter in another attempt to appeal to her indoctrinations. "You will regret this, Madame. You'd do better to stop and pray for forgiveness."

She flushed, but without embarrassment. "I could, but it is too late to stop me from sinning. You once said the desire renders one as culpable as the act."

"Comtesse, do not mock me!" he thundered. Resistance wearing down rapidly, he attempted one final resolve to bring her to her senses. "You could not possibly desire _this_!" and he ripped off the covering, which he so detested, to reveal what he loathed all the more.

Without flinching or turning away, Rosalie beheld the man with silent contemplation. A minute passed in such manner, until the Comtesse pulled her hands out from under Erik's and touched the broken visage. Her features at once transformed. Gone was mad lust, ecstatic frenzy; something tender, passive and divine replaced the yearning. A different sense of morality overpowered her. Yes, she wanted him, but she had to convey to him the message that her want ran deeper than he supposed. Fastening her gaze on his, she mustered all the truth in her heart and whispered,

"I desire _you_."

Hushed reverence followed. Only short, quick breaths and wild heartbeats heard.

"Erik, understand this. We are more than flesh. I desire more than flesh. This," she said, carefully stroking his coarse, deathly pale face, "means nothing. When we have exhaled our final breath and the soul abandons its temple, the body is buried, consumed by worms and returned to the dust from whence it came. No, Erik. This is not about the flesh." Her gaze momentarily shifted. She expelled a breath, and returning with a more penetrating stare confessed, "I have given you my heart."

A violent tremor passed through Erik, who did not answer her confession in words. Instead, he focused solely on the perfect mouth, but inches from his own. He brought his malformed lips to them. Rosalie lifted hers to his, but did not venture to close the gap. She awaited him to do so.

Clumsy, terrified, lustful and desiring, Erik placed his kiss. His thin lips tingled with the sensation of such contact, and he caught his breath, pulling back as if burned.

"Do not be afraid. I am not some timid virgin you need to take care." She spoke the words with great gentility, hoping not to break the spell of the moment.

He in turn whispered, "That knowledge frightens me all the more. I fear to disappoint you."

She shook her head, her purple eyes reveling simultaneously in mirth and patient understanding. "Do not fear. Relax, and all will happen naturally," she soothed.

Erik drew her for a second kiss, or perhaps she drew him. Lifting her still-soaked form to his, he carried her to her bedroom as it contained the more ample bed of the two. From the way she clung and wrapped herself to him, he surmised they would need it.

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_**AN: **We all know where this is headed._

* * *


	27. Part 21: Let the Games Begin

_**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone, for your comments - good, bad, otherwise, on what I should have labeled an interlude in the story. I thank you all for your respect, patience and compassionate understanding, and I am not being fascetious when I state that. I especially wish to thank **RainsPhantom **and **Hot4Gerry** for their continued support and advice._

_Moving forward, we turn the page on a new day._

_Con amor y respeto,_

_EA_

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Chapter 22 Let the Games Begin

The sun stretched its glorious fingers over the French city. As daylight broke darkness, a thin, chilled fog settled through the cobblestone streets. Peddlers and vendors set their places, ready for the day's labor, proving the continuity of life in the midst of chaotic violence - for Paris was indeed in uproar.

News of Le Commissaire's death spread rapidly through the streets, and though many mourned the loss of the Chief of Police, it was more the manner of his death that made for great discussion.

_Asphyxiation_. It seemed the death of choice of late. And, yet, no fingerprints ever found, no notable marks on the throat, just the bluish face and bloated features of a rotting corpse made for great speculation and whispers of "A Ghost" resonated once more.

Too similar to the Comte's death, too near the ill-fated Opera House, many could not help but recount the infamous ghost stories of days gone by, of shadows seen lurking in corners, of steps that echoed when no one stood about, and of a beautiful, but ominous voice that filled one with simultaneous dread and wonder. Oh, yes, everyone knew of the ghost, though no one dared speak of it louder than a whisper.

A carriage moved steadily through Paris' busy morning streets. As a matter of course, it sped with urgency, stopping at the Police Headquarters. A man jumped out of the coach, his pregnant wife closely pressed by his side. The man took great care to conceal his lady's features, practically stashing her under his coat. They pushed their way through the troubled crowd gathered outside the building only to meet with resistance at the edifice's entrance. A police guard blocked their path.

"_Non_. You cannot enter. We have an urgent matter, Monsieur, Madame." He spoke quickly and sternly, waving them away with an impatient hand. However, he met with surprise when the slender, feminine hand clutched his.

"In respects to Le Commissaire's death, oui?" La Vicomtesse spoke boldly, her blue eyes momentarily shimmering with fear, but quickly replaced with a cold, steely gaze.

The guard's face contorted with disgust. "The street rats do not respect the dead. Go away! We have no time to entertain gossipers or storytellers."

Raoul stepped forward, the young Vicomte's mind weary with concern, but determined to speak. "My wife and I have information you will find most useful, if you would give us a moment. I believe we can put this and all past Opera House mysteries to rest."

The guard now gave the couple a longer, curious look. He had his doubts as to how they could help in the matter, but all misgivings erased when he led the pair to his superior officer and the commandant exclaimed, "Vicomte de Chagny, Christine Daae!" And at once the younger officer remembered the infamy at the Opera House. He had forgotten the investigation that had consumed Le Commisaire, the disappearance of La Comtesse. From what he heard, she was last seen at the Opera House with a man who now lay recovering at a hospice.

"Please, do enter. We have much to discuss." The guard curiously eyed the couple take sluggish steps into the office. The heavy wooden doors closed before him, leaving him to stare and wonder.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Dr. Bruyere rushed to see his patient. The news spread like wildfire about Le Commisaire's death and he feared the man's life in danger, though he had no idea how he would protect his patient from a nameless, faceless assassin. Relief flooded through him when he opened the doors and found Eustache sitting in his bed, though hardly in a calm state of mind. His white nightshirt crumpled as he twisted it anxiously over and over in his fists.

Every day the doctor had come to see him, Eustache had but one word. "Rosalie." There were many things he wanted to say, but the doctor urged him not to. Not until he had recuperated sufficient strength of both body and mind.

Bruyere provided physical therapy, walking him through the monks' gardens, guiding him up and down stairs after stretching upper and lower limbs. He engaged his patient in writing exercises, first basic letters of the alphabet, and then small notes. A disturbing pattern emerged in each one. "_L'Opera_". "_Le Fantasme_". "_Rosalie_". "_Succor_".

What had happened at that house?

And now Le Comissaire was dead. Struck down while attending to his life's work. His body discovered by a small lake, eerily reminiscent of what happened to Le Comte de Chagny.

History repeating itself. And was it all over a woman? Was it all over this Rosalie?

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

After what seemed an interminable wait for the young guard, the heavy doors of the office finally opened. The Vicomte, his beautiful wife, and the Commanding Officer stepped out, long sorrowful looks on all three. Each one appeared to have aged with the secret conference that took place in the privacy of those lacquered doors.

The Officer stepped towards the Guard, a grim, determined expression on his face.

"Send word to the Managers of the L'Opera Garnier. I wish to meet with them secretly."

The Guard's gaze passed from his superior to the younger couple standing behind him. The man and his wife held one another. Both wore hardened, yet fearful looks. The lady's face deathly pale, she appeared on the verge of swooning.

"Delmont," The Commanding Officer snapped. "I gave you an order! Did you not hear what I said?"

"Oui, Monsieur. I will go right away." He meant to make haste, but found himself detained by the older officer's heavy hand.

"Speak of this to no one. A woman's life depends on our secrecy and speediness. We cannot afford mishaps or delays. Do you understand?"

Again, Delmont nodded his understanding. He needed to get away. The woman's look broke him.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The doctor and his patient returned from their midday walk around the pond, entering the vestibule of the home. Dr. Bruyere held the door open for Eustache, allowing the tall gentleman to step him before him. Consumed in his thoughts, Bruyere failed to notice the paper he had carelessly left on the table in the middle of the hall, its bold lettering announcing the new tragedy to befall the haunted city.

Only when he shut the door behind him did he notice Eustache's apprehensive stare and trembling hands holding the paper.

"Merde!" cried the doctor, rushing to pull the loathsome news away from him, but it was too late.

Eustache's long mouth contorted and twisted into a ghastly grimace. Lines furrowed his brow and creased his face. A horrid silence hung between the two men, when finally the taller man crumbled into a heap by the table, words hidden for weeks released in a rush of emotion, and in the form of a prayer.

"Mon Dieu, though you are the giver of life and determine the days and steps of man, I beg you, please spare hers. She is not deserving of such death. Protect her wholly, body and soul, from Satan and his special demon abiding in the hellish depths of the Opera. And give me strength. Enable my feeble body that I may find her."

Dr. Bruyere was no longer in any doubt of what this man knew, and to detain him from assisting in the investigation would at this point, be considered criminal.


	28. Part 22: The Night Vigilante

Part 22 -- The Night Vigilante

Erik paced about the small drawing room, waiting for Rosalie to emerge from her dormitory. Dinner sat ready at the table, a hearty stew with vegetable legumes and a fresh loaf of bread, already sliced. Candles illuminated and cheered the space, though a perpetual draft blew through the apartment.

Erik adjusted his cravat for the tenth time. The cursed thing seemed to strangle him that evening. Adjusting it agitatedly, he fingered his starched white collar, and in doing so, brushed against his mask. He immediately recalled how it felt to have it off, and at once felt the gentle caress of her fingers over his obscenity.

What freedom he felt the night before! What joy unlike any known! His body joined to that beautiful woman who carefully adorned herself in the next room, his soul united in a manner he could not understand.

They had made love a great portion of the night; he had become insatiable and lust filled, taking her in numerous manners, battering and bruising her body, he feared; at the time, he could not stop himself. And she did not utter a word of complaint, though she cried out plenty. Afterwards, she drifted in peaceful slumber, her lovely lips turned with a small smile of satisfaction. He watched her submission to unconsciousness, unable to comprehend what had occurred. He stole away from her loveliness, from her light, from her peace, returning to his room and to his confusion, his melancholy. Nothing made sense.

He had pondered plenty as he sat playing random notes on his organ. _What_ was he to do now? He could not keep her, though he had defiled her. What kind of home could he offer her in the darkness of his dwelling? What kind of life could he give in the obscurity of shadows? There was a manhunt for him; of this he was certain. A man could not kill the city's Chief of Police and expect the community to turn a blind eye. He could not attach her to his ruin, of that he was decided.

But she seemed happiest when near him. Had she forgotten her former life, her former ways? He decided to remind her, and such he devised a plan to take her out, away from the dark confines of his lair. First, to his hidden haunts of the rooftops, then through the empty streets of Paris. She would not like to see the nightlife, to view the world in the manner only he could. To see the prostitutes and destitute, the thieves and murderers like him, who only dared breathe air when none of the decent folk were about.

The rooftops would be a test of her fidelity. She had not seen the world in about a month's time. It could be containment had made her mad. If she went out, felt the stroke from the balmy air, would it not bring her to her senses? The Comtesse within her might resurrect, and there stood a possibility she would recall her present situation and scream for help, or worse, throw herself off the rooftop. Both actions, Erik would move to control, but if he saw any such reaction, he would take her to her home, no questions, no regrets, and he would then march himself straight to the devil.

While pondering the possibilities of what might transpire, Erik failed to hear the creak of the bedroom door, or the shuffle of light steps. He was quite taken by surprise when, after pouring himself a glass of wine, he heard a voice near him say,

"Forgive the delay. I was uncertain of what to wear."

Erik spun quickly, almost dropping the goblet. A vision of perfection stood before him. The Lady glowed, positively radiated. At first, he thought the fire in the hearth cast the illumination, but he saw the pink flush of her cheeks and the brightened gaze in her purple eyes, and at once knew the light came from within.

Rosalie had taken great pains with her appearance. She picked up half of her black tresses with gold colored combs, styling the upper half in ringlets that brushed delicately against her face, neck and shoulders. The scent of jasmine reached Erik's nostrils and he momentarily quivered, recollecting his face pressing deep within her supple skin. Managing to tear his eyes away from her perfect visage, he received a second surprise. Gone was the black garb she so faithfully wore for days - in its place, a summer lilac dress that brought out the lighter hues of her eyes. Erik at once felt bewitched by the image before him.

"You look stunning," he admitted, when all other words failed him.

Rosalie's color heightened, adding to her beauty. What had possessed her to wear the dress? Or to arrange her hair in such manner? Or to add fragrance? Love made her foolish.

"Thank you, but I suddenly do not feel myself."

Erik took the words as proof she behaved in a manner possessed, and the outdoors would soon see her free of her madness. He responded to her with his usual aloofness.

"Do not fret yourself with explanations, Madame. You did not feel like wearing black, end of matter. Surely you have done stranger things."

Rosalie eyed him curiously at the sudden change of manner and tone certain he alluded to what transpired only the night before. She assented only with a slight nod. He was up to something. She knew it.

Very few words exchanged throughout the course of the dinner, as both parties sat trying to read the other's mind. Guards were up, suspicions ran high, and neither one was certain what to expect from the other.

For Rosalie it was disheartening. She had hoped to find him next to her when she awoke so they might engage in discussion, but when she roused, he was not about. He had quitted the apartment altogether, and for the briefest moment, Rosalie wondered if she had not made a grave error in judgment. Perhaps she had seen more than there actually was, felt more than there was to feel; everything too soon, too sudden, Rosalie's mind was a storm of questions.

As she nibbled on the edge of her bread in a mouse like manner, Erik spoke.

"After we have dined, I should like to show you something."

_Another tour_, she thought, recalling the last one revealed the torture chamber. What diabolical devices would he introduce her to next? But the idea of movement appealed more to Rosalie than sitting put in strenuous silence.

"Sounds lovely," she answered distractedly.

Rosalie took several more bites of the bread before giving up. She apologized for her lack of appetite, while Erik assured her it was not necessary. He then stood, holding out his hand with gentlemanlike affability. Rosalie accepted, feeling something of the tenderness of the night before, but all joy stifled at seeing the gondola.

"Erik, I do not wish to quit you."

"It is not what you think. Trust me, Rosalie."

He said her name with a regal sort of certainty and knowingness. Rosalie felt herself overcome with the force of it, and immediately did as bid.

"I cannot deny my longing in a change of scenery. There is something about restraint that makes one want to move about all the more. But where are we going? Certainly not to the Opera House."

Despite himself, Erik smiled. "No. I am not so foolish as that. If you were seen in such a public area it would cause quite the commotion."

"Not quite the commotion as if the masses caught sight of you."

Erik laughed a hearty laugh. Rosalie had not heard its like before, so different from the cynical scoffs and malicious guffaws she'd witness in weeks prior. The sound sent her heart soaring to the gates of heaven itself, and she counted herself blessed to catch its ring in her ears.

"I suppose that is a fair and just statement," he conceded.

Rosalie smiled, pleased with the cordiality her comment received, and ventured again.

"Where are we going?"

"Out," was her guide's answer.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Darkened tunnels and an eerie sort of silence loomed over the still waters at the bottom of the opera house. The slightest ripple broke the lake's tranquil rhythm. Within minutes, the water chopped and flowed, its sudden motion caused by a gondola drifting in the same sort of depressed state in accordance with its ambiance. Erik paddled with swift determination, not giving the much-traveled corridors a second thought. However, Rosalie felt she entered the unknown pyramids of Egypt. She strained her vision, committing every obscure wall to memory, every turn to remembrance. She did not want to forget a single thing, in case….

Rosalie dared not complete her thought. She sensed a distrust and guard about Erik. She had hoped last night's actions would have tumbled all walls of doubt and suspicion, but if she had pierced a hole, it seemed he sealed it. Fearing he meant to drop her off in the most public of squares and then disappear into the night, leaving her only with a lifetime of memories, she sat more fearful than expectant.

When she least suspected, Erik gave her a quick, furtive glance, his mind equally unsettled, unsure of the trip's outcome. What would she do outside in public? How would she behave? Once she saw the change in her environment and stood amongst her own, would she attempt to flee? The confines of the lair had perhaps subdued her fiery spirit, but to return to the land of the living might indeed revive her.

The gondola reached the other side of the lake. Erik coursed it effortlessly to a stop and alighted from the boat. Before he could reach over to offer gentlemanly assistance to the Lady, she had already stretched her small foot over the edge of the gondola. The folds of her skirt caught in the heel of her slipper, and had Erik not put a quick arm to grab her, her chin would have split against the stone ground.

"Quick steps," he commented.

"Clumsy ones more like it. I'm sorry. I don't even know in which direction to travel. I suppose I should let you lead the way," she admitted with a small smirk, though it pricked her pride.

"It seems a logical decision. How did your husband keep up with you?" Erik asked in his dry, blunt fashion.

Rosalie winced. Yes, she had had a husband once. That was precisely how she ended up in her present state. Her heart tugged; she recalled the man who stood before her was the one who unjustly ended Philippe's life. Still, she ventured a response.

"Philippe let me have my way for the most part. From time to time he did chide me a bit, but it was all in my best interest." She spoke with less conviction than in weeks prior.

"How did he know what was in your best interest?" Erik asked with sudden warmth.

"Pardon?" Rosalie blinked at his brisk tone.

"How does anyone know what is in anyone's best interest save the individual?"

Rosalie readied with a swift response. "Another perspective sees things differently."

"Differently, yes - but not objectively."

Again, the past. One way or another, some previous memory came to each mind. A different pang pulled Rosalie's heart. "Erik, I never did apologize for my earlier, hurtful comments."

Erik shook his head. "You said a great many things, Madame. We both have. And we have done a great deal more."

In spite of herself Rosalie laughed, though she had much rather cried. "God knows my own follies. I don't understand why I did it."

He looked directly at her as they walked. "Why you did what?"

"Judged. I received no joy or comfort in proclaiming myself better than anyone else."

"The feeling of false righteousness makes one's sins seem small by comparison."

Rosalie's lips curved into a sad smirk. "For someone who questions the existence of God, you certainly do understand the mindset."

"People have tried to explain the Why of my sorrows," Erik responded, a bitter twang echoing behind his words.

Rosalie quietly admitted her guilt in what Erik spoke. How many times had she not tried to rationalize, justify or explain the difficulties in the world? Sometimes there was no answer, leaving one with the monumental task of acceptance. Humanity's failure to acknowledge was what led to dissention, hatred, fear - to having a lone genius live in the bottom of a cellar.

"You are quiet. What are you thinking?" he suddenly asked.

"How much simpler my life was once upon a time. I can never go back to a normal existence."

Erik interpreted her words quite differently from how she intended them. "My life interrupts others to a degree I cannot explain. I apologize for that."

Wanting to reassure him, Rosalie reached for his long, leather clad fingers, intertwining them in her warm ones. "I've learned more about myself in these weeks than I have in my entire life."

Forgetting his plan for the moment, Erik fixed his gaze on hers. "What have you learned, Rosalie?"

She shook her head, the curls brushing her cheekbones. "I cannot describe it in words. The evidence of it is in my behavior and attitude."

Pulling the hand away from hers, he reached and stroked her cheek, momentarily transfixed in what he believed her sincerity. But a second later, he turned away. Was she sincere? Only time would tell.

Grabbing her hand again, Erik led Rosalie to his horse. Cesar recognized his owner and lowered his head in obedience. The Lady's eyes widened at the event, and she cried out. "You have a horse living underground!" Her impressed tones rang in the hallway.

Erik smiled behind his mask at her childlike wonder. However, his reply was practical.

"Let me help you mount."

Sudden shyness overcame both parties. Gone was the euphoric frenzy of the night before, while the two fought against a new wave of ecstatic pleasure. The moment Erik placed his hands around her small waist, Rosalie's face heated, her lips parting slightly. Forgetting himself, he allowed both hands to encircle her small circumference, pulling him close to her, inhaling her scent, for there was more in the aroma than the artificial fragrance. The immediate rush of want infused the air. Her small, satisfied sigh confirmed this.

With a shake of his head, Erik came to his senses and mounted her on the horse swiftly. He then walked to the front of his trusty stead to guide him. They had not traveled ten steps when he heard her say,

"You mean to walk?" She sounded disappointed.

"It is not far."

"Then why have the horse?"

"It is not far for _me_," he corrected, never turning to look at her.

Rosalie felt the rise of her feistiness. "I see. It is not far for you, but it is far for me."

"Yes." Erik failed to see wherein laid the problem. "You are not accustomed to walking such hefty distances."

"Try me," was the answer Erik heard behind him, and by the tone of her voice, he knew she was annoyed.

"I do not wish to argue."

"Wonderful. Then it is settled I walk."

"It is not settled."

"Then ride with me."

The words held a double meaning for Erik, and he felt himself forced to turn and face her. "Do you even realize what you say at times?" he called out, visibly frustrated.

Rosalie's brow furrowed as she considered where her words faulted. While she pondered, Erik stopped the horse, and with one agile motion sat behind her. The suddenness of the movement caused her to catch her breath, but she soon recovered and instead nestled near him.

Erik had never encountered a more vicious attack than in the form of this woman's caresses. A year ago, his life involved nothing more than a hardened heart and the longing of a simple death, and then the females entered. These women robbed him of his straightforward task. First Christine, now her. Delilah's seduction of Sampson paled in comparison to this paltry act.

Straightening, he distanced their bodies a bit. She did not fight back.

They reached the end of a narrow corridor. Erik halted Cesar and dismounted, swinging his leg effortlessly, almost in a dance like manner. It was an easy, smooth movement. Rosalie immediately noticed and again thought of her husband who grunted and groaned when attempting mounts or dismounts. In the latter months of his life, he rarely rode, preferring instead to ride in coaches. It was the last of his exercises he had given up on, and the effects of it became noticeable. Rosalie on occasion had poked fun of her "old man."

She cast a quick glance at Erik's long, lean legs, and her mind recalled what lay behind his perfectly pressed trousers. She blushed hotly, but not in embarrassment. If only they were back at his apartment. As bold as she was, she would not dare attempt seduce him in dark, damp corridors with the occasional rat scurrying by. Hoping for distraction, she jumped off the horse unassisted, only to succeed in having her skirt catch on the horse's reign. The sound of tearing echoed in the empty halls.

Her eyes opened wide in disbelief; she caught Erik's amused gaze.

"Do you not know the meaning of patience?" he asked, leaning over her to remove her skirt and one of her petticoats, a corner folded under one of the straps.

"I am trying," Rosalie said in her defense. She felt humbled but still managed a retort. "You are a fine one to talk."

"My impatience is of a completely different nature."

"How so?" Rosalie, eager to speak of anything than her torn skirt, continued the conversation.

"I act in my best interest, usually in my protection, as there is no one else who will do such for me. You impatience will get you killed. Do not debate if you cannot see the facts clearly."

Rosalie made a face, but said no more, her silence admitting defeat.

Satisfied by her submission Erik proceeded to push open a door that Rosalie had not seen. As a matter of course, it looked like the very wall! She watched eagerly.

"Amazing," she mumbled.

"A door amazes you? You have not seen much."

"Apart from these weeks, my life experience has been sheltered. All that I have learned has come from books. You must forgive me if a hidden door excites me."

Erik smiled feeling more relaxed. What a creature stood before him. She was as amusing as she was bewitching, and he could show her a great many more things. Pity to return her. But in his experience, joy was fleeting, and so it would be with her. Still, when he saw her dancing eyes, he could not help but feel a pang of regret.

The next half hour was spent turning hallways, rounding corners, and finally up stairs, stairs, and more stairs. How dismal the Opera House appeared from this angle. There was no glory or beauty in its inner, forgotten walkways, though they were serviceable. It seemed only natural it should have a ghost. Seized by the notoriety of Erik's reputation, Rosalie at once filled with curiosity.

"You garnered your reputation by knowing all these secret turns?"

"Were it only a matter of obscure movement, my dear."

Rosalie savored the "dear" in his statement. "Without the criminal acts you would still have been considered a ghost," she observed. "However, they would have forgotten you quickly."

Erik sighed. "At times, I wish none thought of me."

"And yet, you kidnap people."

"The irony of man's nature. Seldom does he know what he desires."

"Very well said. If only more men had your frankness." Rosalie would have offered a longer reply, but felt herself winded. She leaned momentarily against the wooden railing and looked up. "Are there many more steps left?"

"Tired?" Erik teased.

"Perhaps," she said reluctantly, a hint of a smile on her lips.

Erik knew her pride was in danger of suffering a blow. He prudently answered, "For admitting as much, I will in turn say, you climb as well as any man."

Her smile grew.

Erik reached for her hand, pulling her up the final steps that led to the rooftop. Exhaling a quick breath, he then pushed open a door that led outside. He held it for her, allowing her to step out before him.

Rosalie's first steps outside were uncertain ones. She walked as though she were a stranger in a foreign land. Her first sensation was that of the night air caressing her face, neck, and limbs. She closed her eyes and breathed in. The aroma of fir trees and peonies in bloom caught her nostrils. Tilting her head back, she looked directly at the night sky. She had almost forgotten about the moon and the stars. The former offered a luminescent glow; the latter blanketed the black sky's expanse. She stretched her hands out hoping to touch the heavens. She communed with God, glad to live long enough to see His nature again. For a moment, she forgot about her partner.

Erik purposely lagged behind wanting to see her reaction at her first taste of freedom. Surprised by her contemplative manner, he waited for her initial shock to pass, but nothing followed. Freedom had not seized her with mad delirium. She did not try to jump the rooftops as he half expected, nor did she break the stillness of the night with shrieks for help. There was no passionate demonstration as he had come to expect from her. The quiet meditation perplexed him.

Rosalie mumbled, "It is beautiful up here. What a magnificent view." She took several steps further, moving away from Erik. He watched her lilac dress brush the ground, swaying gently against the night breeze. She then perched herself near the edge of the roof. Erik at once tensed and moved near her, readying to succumb her if need be.

But instead the Lady turned, an angelic expression transforming her features. Mayhaps it was the moon, but her face glowed even more radiantly than before. "One does not appreciate the small wonders of life until they are no longer afforded." Placing a small hand over his she smiled tenderly at him. "Thank you. This was a lovely gesture."

Erik snorted. "What gesture? To breathe fresh air which I've denied you?"

She shook her head. "To trust me enough to take me outdoors. My record for dramatic outbursts stands against me. You must have been poised to club me."

Again, Erik laughed from deep within. "Perhaps not club, but you knew me enough to be on my guard."

"Rightly so. You wouldn't want me to give away your position. And I certainly don't want to give away mine." She gave him a meaningful look, one he could not deny, and at once his gaze traveled to her lips. At once falling under the influence of her lure, he felt a fever course through him. Fearful to take her on the roof, he turned away.

"Shall we continue our tour? The night is but beginning."

"Oh, yes, please! There's much fun to be had skulking about places. I see how you maintain yourself so limber." She smiled, only to have her vision cloud but seconds later.

Erik immediately noted the change. "Yes?"

Images of her former life returned to her mind, of those who loved her and she, them in turn. She thought of Miriette, her brother Raoul, and yes, poor Eustache. Her heart twitched to think of him suffering, while she pursued pleasure.

"I cannot help but wonder how my friends fare. Erik, is there any possibility in communicating with them, without compromising your safety?"

Erik smirked almost certain whom she thought of foremost in her mind. That man Eustache would soon have her in his arms. Swallowing for a moment, he nodded.

"Leave it to me, Madame. Did you not know I am the expert note writer?"

"More notorious infamy I am sure," Rosalie joked as lightly as possible, but she was all too aware at his icy tone and at his calling her "Madame." She continued with the lighter topic. "It is a long walk back, and there is something I have long wanted to know."

"Yes?" Erik again questioned as Rosalie brushed past him towards the door.

"Tell me about the night the chandelier fell."


	29. Part 23: Encircling the Predator

Chapter 23 – Encircling the predator

The moon gleamed quietly over Paris, and though many of the cities inhabitants took to slumbering under its peaceful shimmer, others stood vigil, and for reasons all their own, refused to find repose in their warmth of their beds.

With quick, brisk strokes Miriette swept the hearth in the cold Victorian mansion. Since the Comtesse's disappearance seldom had she gotten a good night's rest. She dedicated her energies to keeping an orderly household, acting as if the home were filled with life and laughter. She continually lighted fireplaces, brought in fresh flowers, and kept alerted eyes for any speck of dust daring to gather on one spot. The house needed to look its best, for at any given moment, the Mistress could walk through the door.

Satisfied with the order displayed in the sitting room, Miried moved to the parlor ready to polish the grand mirrors that hung ostentatiously at the home's front entrance. Despite her somber mind, the young servant smirked recalling her Mistress' hatred of the reflective glass, vociferously arguing with her husband over their show-offish appearance, one of the few moments Rosalie displayed her vehemence and fervor to her spouse.

In moving past the heavy oak doors, she spied something caught underneath the carpet. Its beige color contrasted starkly against the deep wine colored runner.

"What's this?" she asked aloud, wondering who could have been so careless as to leave correspondence lying about.

Bending over and tugging at the stationery's corner, she then noted it had been pushed under the door, as if brought by an anonymous messenger. Miried's heart skipped a beat as she turned the envelope over in her hand and saw the childlike scribbling, which penned her name.

"_Mon Dieu, mais qu'est cette chose_?" she asked again, this time in ragged whisper.

Dropping the broom and cloth, she scurried to her room, bolting the door behind her. Feeling a bit more secure, she took a deep breath, made the sign of the cross and broke the envelope's skull head seal.

She nearly fell back on her bed when she saw the all too familiar handwriting that belonged to her Mistress. La Comtess had penned the letter herself! She lived! The sight alone caused Miried's heart to leap to her throat and her eyes to fill with tears. But she guarded herself any premature celebrations, fearing the letter may bear tragic tidings. Willing courage and drying her tears, she looked over its contents.

_Dearest Miried,_

_It is with most fervent prayers I wish you all well. Believe me, dear girl, when I tell you I am well, for I know you have all feared the worst. There is nothing to perturb neither body nor mind, and my present course, though the strangest road yet sojourned, has been a God-given opportunity, yet the manner in which it happened would seem as if the devil himself orchestrated the affair. I cannot begin to tell you what I have experienced, and this letter is not the place to do. _

_Where I am now, I stay of my own accord. I am not being held against my will or harmed in any way. I write this of my own free will. God brings us to places we would otherwise resist if told forehand we were to go._

_Ma cherie fille, I promise I will see you soon. And my best love and prayers are for Eustache. How I long to see him and explain to him what has happened! My heart is always with him. Please tell him we will meet shortly._

_God bless you._

_Rosalie Lamarliere_

Miried's hands trembled violently as she gave the letter a second read, nor did the palpitations of her heart decrease as she read it over a third or fourth time. Perhaps the Mistress meant to calm her with such tidings, but they had but the opposite effect, serving to perturb her agitated mind and to weaken her fragile spirit.

The thing unsettling her most was the nom de plume given at the end of letter.

Rosalie _Lamarliere_? What happened to Comtesse de Chagney? Had she been brainwashed? The letter spoke of her being well, but bore all the signs of mental distress. No, no, no. The kidnapper forced Comtesse to write that rubbish and sign in a matter disrespecting her marriage.

Enough was enough. She could no longer sit and wait offering vain prayers to the sky, lighting candles for her Mistress. No. She would take this evidence to the police, and if they lacked action, Miried would take her own measures. If only she knew where Monsieur Eustache lay.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Officer Delmont sat behind the desk filing reports. He absentmindedly fingered one of the sheets, unaware where he laid it. His thoughts were on the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, particularly on the latter. The look on the Lady's face when their eyes met broke him. She appeared tortured, conflicted, weighed down beyond conceivable measure.

What information could she have to shed on Le Commissaire's death? Was it possible the couple knew of the murderer? Such were the thoughts consuming the guard when the doors burst open.

Two gentlemen came forward. For the manner in which the doors swung, Delmont expected to be accosted at his desk, but on the contrary, both persons approached in a slow gait as if to build the suspense. He watched the two visitors a full five minutes in which neither spoke.

"May I help you?"

The older man spoke first. "Good evening."

"Good evening, do you say? It is morning," Delmont interrupted, his gaze alternating rapidly from one gentlemen to the next.

"The time is inconsequential. I am Doctor Bruyere, and this is my patient, Monsieur Eustache Rousseau."

Delmont mouthed the taller gentleman's name, a soft bell clinging in his head as he repeated it. Had the name not had some sort of significance, the penetrating look the doctor gave him would have made him suspect.

"I… need… to… speak… to the man…in…charge." Eustache spoke in a deliberately slow manner, hoping to convey the urgency of the matter.

"He is not here. He-" Delmont almost revealed the location of his superior officer, but thankfully caught himself. "Is gone for the night, as you will find most people are. Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

Just as both men opened their mouths to share some information, the door burst open again, and a young lady's maid stepped inside. Her hair uncombed, her face tear stained, she ran waving a piece of paper in the air. Blind to the two men, she pushed past them and slammed the stationery on the desk.

"You need read that, _maintenant_!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Delmont cried.

"Miried?" Eustache asked in disbelief.

Miried, who hadn't realized others were in the room, screamed at the sight of Monsieur Rousseau. Forgetting her place and his, she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, almost falling to her knees thanking God.

And suddenly everyone began speaking at once.

"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur! Praise be to God! You can help! You can help!"

"What is it Miried?"

"Eustache, who is this?" The doctor asked.

"Would someone like to tell me what the hell is going on here?" Delmont cried, feeling the situation rapidly slipping past his control.

"We need to get all the officers to the Opera House!" Miried cried. Before Delmont could offer any type of protest, Miried rushed through the next part of her sentence. "That is Mistress' handwriting, The Comtesse de Chagny."

Suddenly all three men were very curious as to what news the note contained, and were quiet as Delmont read the contents aloud.

"How did you come about this?"

"I found it under the door but just an hour ago," the servant girl hastily puffed, wiping her brow.

"But did you not hear anything when it arrived? And why would she sign it with another last name? Is it an alias?"

Miried shook her head in the negative. "Nay. That is her maiden name, and no. I heard not a sound. It's as if a ghost himself placed it there."

In desperation, Eustache pulled the letter out of the guard's hand.

"Wait just a moment!" he cried in protest, but Eustache's gaze at once devoured the information. His face turned from pink to crimson to purple and then back to its original hue.

"What is the meaning of this letter?" Eustache asked so quietly it cut through everyone's veneer. "What does she mean by saying she stays of her own accord?" His voice steadily rose. "She was kidnapped! I was nearly killed! What game _is this_!"

"Monsieur, this could be some sort of hoax," the guard offered.

"Non. That is her handwriting. I have seen it countless times before, even prior to her being wed." Bitterness resounded in every word.

Another deathly hush followed that proclamation.

Delmont, equally confused by the perplexing letter, thought aloud. "The de Chagnys could not have known about this when they saw the Inspector."

Miried slammed the table. "The de Chagneys are here? The Vicomte and his wife?"

Cursing his feeble tongue, Delmont could do nothing more than to assent his blunder.

"Where are they?" Now Eustache gripped the wooden edge of the desk. Any more pressure and he would rip off a piece.

Delmont exhaled a breath and said, "They are at the opera house - were at the opera house. They requested a meeting with the managers. I find it very improbable they should-"

But the trio did not hear another word, speeding on their heels, they raced out the same manner they came, leaving the guard to finish his sentence alone. After watching the door slam shut, he went in pursuit after them, remembering to bring his pistols.


	30. Part 24: On the Hunt

Chapter 24 – On the hunt

"I believe it is past your bedtime," Erik observed as the Comtesse's purple eyes waxed heavy, threatening to close.

"So it would seem," she murmured lazily, fighting to stay awake. The sway of the cab the pair traveled in only added to her increasing fatigue. "But what fun I've had. I enjoyed this night immensely. Thank you, Erik. It felt good to near the old house, and in some way connect with others. But I am ready to return home."

An unknown sensation washed over Erik in hearing her pronounce the final word. The finality in her voice should have frustrated him, for it signified his plans had off-centered and declared his efforts vain, but on the contrary, he felt immense relief. He could not shake this woman off; she refused to let go, and he began to believe he could not part with her either.

After leaving the rooftops, they sojourned out into the shadowy streets, Erik expertly maneuvering the unsuitably cloaked Lady in and out of shadows. To make matters worse, her pealy laughter echoed in the still alleys, akin to wandering about with a child! Erik had momentarily feared detection, but at the same time wished for it, as it would release him from her. However, it was not to be had, anyone who had noticed the less than clandestine duo was too drunk to care.

In another move to awaken sense, he suggested they write the letter to her friends _from her house. _At first, Rosalie resisted the idea for his sake, apprehensive for his safety, but soon delicious smiles stretched over her face, and her eyes brightened. Indeed, the outdoors shed years off her appearance. She looked as youthful as any eighteen-year-old.

"How will we get in?" she whispered in such a thrilled tone, Erik could not help but match her smile. Fortunately, she could not see it.

"We will climb a tree, and enter your bedroom chambers. I know how to open windows."

It was something of a trial in assisting the Lady up the cherry blossom with her mountains of petticoats and yards of silk, but somehow they managed. Rosalie's dress tore some more, but it seemed inconsequential in light of the adventure.

Once inside, Erik stood watch by the door, while the Lady gazed about her room. He intently observed her face, waiting for the transformation to occur. She stood amidst her former luxuries. Surely, she would not want to go back now. Her bedroom was almost the size of his entire flat! A lavish canopy bed with gold colored linens and heaps of pillows decorated the center of the room. Beautifully crafted furniture in the darkest colored mahogany attested to the de Chagney fortune. Dozens of paintings, vases and lighted candles cheered the room.

"Do you think they're expecting me?" she asked in a low whisper, raising an eyebrow at the roaring fire. "Dear servants. They are my family."

Leaving the door, Erik neared her, hoping to once and for all walk away from this mess he created. "Do you not miss them? It is apparent they suffer without you."

Lifting her eyes to meet his amber gaze, Rosalie decidedly shook her head. "I do love them, but I can keep doing so from afar. I see this room, and it is as if it belongs to another. It is not my own. I never wanted so many frills and useless items in my life!" Moving away from him, she picked up a lace doily. "Whatever had I need of this?" Tossing it behind her she continued. "I know you think I would be free here, Erik. You forget I am no simpleton. I know what you have been plotting. But I have come to realize I was a prisoner of rank and position as any other woman might be. And in a very twisted way, I have you to thank for my freedom." Striding towards him again in bold determination, she reached to touch his mask. "I don't know what the future will bring and it no longer seems so important. I care for this present moment, and I thank God for it - and for _you_."

The words struck Erik like a dagger. When had anyone thanked God for him! He had been nothing more than a curse to everyone. His own mother rued his birth! It had nearly driven her to insanity. And this woman, this celestial vision, had thanked the Creator of Heaven and Earth for the curse all sought to evade and destroy. He visibly shuddered.

"Do you love me, Erik? I love you so very much, but the last thing I wish to be is a hindrance to you. Tell me how you feel," she persisted.

Love was a powerful emotion indeed, making the wisest into fools and rendering the strongest of men weak. Erik investigated his heart with great care. Oh, yes, he loved this woman. He tried to deny it, but no longer could. Yet at that moment, the words failed. His response instead was, "Write your letter, and then we shall depart."

And so she did, and after pouring her soul in the briefest manner possible, she took special care to sign her name using her maiden name, her free name. She no longer cared for society's conventions for she no longer lived by them. From this moment on, she declared her emancipation.

After the ink dried, she folded the sheet and went to place the wax seal, but Erik detained her with his hand. "Allow me to put the final touch," he offered. With some quick chiseling, he altered the bottom of the seal, placed it over the wax and then pressed it onto the paper.

"A death's head," the Lady smirked. "You cannot help yourself I suppose."

Erik quietly laughed, escorting her back out the window.

And so they neared L'Opera Garnier, accepted as "home" to both, but Erik's mind was anything but composed. Instead he wondered what the next move in this plan gone askew would be. Perhaps he should adopt her philosophy and not worry about the next day. The moment at hand was perfection, with Rosalie's floral fragranced head resting peacefully on his shoulder. She finally succumbed to her weariness.

But the peace was short-lived, as was the sleep; for no sooner had she finally dozed, than her eyes flew open at her companion's urgent words.

"Stop the carriage here," she heard him call to the driver. "Something is wrong."


	31. Part 25: Into Whose Trap?

_**A/N** Thanks for the comments and reviews. Am trying to speed up the updates. Thanks for sticking with this._Chapter 25 – Into Whose Trap?

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Clouds traveled across moonshine. The luminescent gleam from the reflective rock at once disappeared, providing Erik the best cover as he guardedly maneuvered through the darkness. His fair partner following closely behind proved more of a hindrance, her every step reverberating through the streets, her long dress swishing in the silence.

"Rosalie, perhaps it would be best if you spent the night elsewhere," Erik commented, his bright eyes darting a quick glance at the multitude of horses and armed patrolmen surrounding the Opera's every entrance. Upon initially spotting the first guard, Erik had sent the cab driver in the opposite direction from which they came, dropping them off at the nearest abandoned corner. He paid the man mightily for the trouble, giving him more for his discretion.

"Else – _where_?" Rosalie echoed in frustration. "I have no place to hide. The entire city searches for me, and someone has obviously discovered something stirring about the House, for why else would a small army of officers assemble outside in the middle of the night? Damn you, Erik. What possessed you to kill Le Commissaire?"

"Possession is perhaps the correct word, however, now is not the time to lay charges at one's door, Milady." Erik knelt in the nearest corridor, pulling Rosalie down behind him as two officers trotting in their steeds passed. They paused near the strip, holding a lantern.

"Did you hear something?" the nearest patrolman asked his partner.

"Aye. Probably more gutter rats scrounging for food. Come along. We're supposed to patrol and report when we see something suspicious, not stop at every sound. Besides, the lunatic is probably inside already. What a surprise he'll receive when he discovers two dozen footmen waiting in his hidden lair."

A gasp escaped the Lady causing Erik to throw a gloved hand over Rosalie's mouth muffling her would be cry. The two men who stood but a mere three meters away, failed to hear the stifled sound, too busy were they unveiling the secret plot. After several more minutes of preemptive boasting on a fugitive not yet captured, the men rode off, the trotting of the horses' languid pace echoing through the cobblestone streets.

"Oh, Erik." Rosalie's voice broke in sob. "We must flee! You must flee! Perhaps, perhaps were I to show my face, to speak all is well, they would end the search."

"They would end the search for _you_, my dear, but not for _me_. Well should I be accustomed to evading the law. When does a man cease running? When does a man stop prowling about in shadowy corners and fight? I desired nothing more than a normal existence. To go out during the days, my arm draped about my living wife. Is there a penalty to desire such simple life?" The speech followed by a ragged breath, Rosalie knew none of his questions required an answer from her. Rather, he seemed to ask them from the One who assigned him to such a fate. Still, the Comtesse felt compelled to bring him to reason.

Rosalie reached for his arm. "You cannot go in there and fight in the manner you are thinking of. That would be a suicide mission."

"Under the circumstances, suicide holds much appeal."

Rosalie grabbed at the mask face in sudden anger. "Do not consider it any longer. What of me? If you tie a noose about your neck, do you not suspect I would soon follow suit?" She spoke in maddened frenzy.

Erik's eyes blazed upon his lover, his heart lurched at her comment. A memory of Christine, head banged and bloodied came to his mind. The latter had tried to kill herself to escape him, and now this woman, this strange, passionate being, declared she would kill herself to join him should he engage in the act. To hear such faithfulness and devotion from one so beautiful brought some sense to him.

"Is this the same principled woman I brought down but weeks ago?" he could not help but tease.

"My principles have evolved into something different, something many would not understand, but I know you do."

Erik smiled behind the mask, his golden gaze reflecting off Rosalie's pupils. Gently pulling her hands from the sides of his dark covering, he pressed each one, then returned a serious view to the enemies laying in wait. "Circumstances speak against us, but perhaps I can scare all my unwanted guests away."

"I believe you can, but how do we get inside?"

"Stay low and follow me."

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o

Christine's eyes swelled from the tears shed. She feared she vanquished her ability to cry, but whenever her vision traveled to the armed guards following her and Raoul to the Lair, new water stood in her eyes. She blinked them back, exhausted by the conflicting sentiments waging war within her, continually telling herself what she did was for her sister-in-law. Erik must be brought to justice.

Too long had he terrorized the Opera's occupants. For too many years had he victimized the innocent lives of dozens through coercion and threats. Too many lives lost at his hands. It had to be done.

But her heart throbbed at her broken oath. She had promised silence in exchange for freedom. She had been given life as he anticipated death. The man slept in a coffin! What greater clue could be given towards his self-perception? He thought himself unloved, invaluable, despised by all. She had shown him otherwise, only now….

"My darling, what is the matter?" Raoul asked, viewing his wife's once dominating stride all but cease.

"I - Raoul, I cannot. I thought I could, but I can't. Raoul, forgive me, please forgive me," she whispered in low voice, clutching her husband's jacket in fear her legs would give.

"Is everything all right, Vicomte?" Devereaux, The captain of the guards asked.

"We need but a moment. If you would excuse us."

Deveraux nodded and lifting a hand cried, "_Arretez maintenant_!"

"What the problem?" cried a younger, more impulsive officer from the back of the line.

"The lady needs a moment," Deveraux called in turn.

"Stupid woman!" The young officer hissed to the guard nearest him. "Why do we need to follow the lead of a lady, and a pregnant one at that, mind you. This is a dangerous mission. She'll just get in our way."

"Aye. You're right in saying that. Don't know. _Le capitan_ says the place is full of traps and pitfalls and she knows how to avoid them. Anyway, what are you complaining about? Better to be here than back on the streets watching the drunken beggars."

"Yes, but once we arrive at the destination what's she going to do? Knit booties?"

While the younger men continued their emphatic debate, Raoul pulled Christine several feet away from the troops' earshot.

"Christine, my love. We cannot turn back now. I can send someone to escort you back upstairs, but as for the rest of the men and myself, we need to stay the course. We agreed to this."

"I know, Raoul. I know. My brain tells me all the reasons it should be done, but-but…." A sob muffled the rest of her sentence.

"Your heart speaks another," the young man finished a small sneer visible on his handsome features. "You are still under his spell."

"I am not! I swear I am not, but I feel Erik deserves more that this."

Gently grabbing his wife's shoulders, Raoul held Christine's gaze fast with his own. Lowering his voice, he hoped he could speak words of reason and comfort. "Christine, you tried to speak to him. You did what you could. Is it not time to allow the police to have their day? How long should this man-"

"Erik."

"-_Erik_, mock the good people of this city? Do not forget my brother, Christine. Here is my chance for swift retribution and I'll be damned if I am denied the opportunity now."

Viewing the sudden hatred blazing in her husband's eyes filled Christine with a new fear. She never should have come in first place. But the act now in motion, little could be done to stop it.

Nodding, she gulped the dank air surrounding her and clasped her husband's hand.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

A smaller band of would-be heroes traveled in a different haunt of the Opera House.

Delmont cursed his own daring. Why hadn't he waited at the station as ordered? Deveraux would never forgive him for this, and to make matters worse, he traveled with three unarmed, inexperienced civilians, one of them a whimpering woman.

Each had debated who should come and who should stay. Each claimed devotion and faithfulness to the Comtesse or at least to her disappearance. Each argument made perfect sense to the individual, while being equally nonsensical to the others, and now the foursome traveled in a darkened hallway, carrying no lanterns, no candles, nothing. They followed the shuffles of each other's footsteps, with only Miried clinging to Dr. Bruyere for dear life.

"This is it," Eustache announced with ominous certainty. "This is where the nightmare began. There must be some hidden door somewhere, at some place."

Miried let go of the doctor's hand, feeling about for a handle, and chain, something. Her foot slipped along the edge and she let out a quick cry.

"He has her! The monster has her!" Eustache called to the only armed person amongst them.

The cocking of a rifle reverberated in the dark and Delmont aimed, but at what? What if he shot one from the group? Thankfully, Miried's voice called, "Do not shoot! I am fine. My foot slipped off the side and landed into standing water."

"Water?" the officer repeated.

"Yes. I… I think. It keeps going. My, there's an entire pool of it. Why yes, listen, listen to the flow!" Miried called.

"Miried, come toward us. Let us form a chain, and we will follow this water. Hopefully, it will not be too deep, but just in case, does everyone know how to swim." Delmont asked the group. They all answered in unison, their "yes," echoing through the halls.

"God be with us," Bruyere whispered.


	32. Part 26: The Walls Close In

_**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who has demonstrated extreme patience as I pick up my lagging feet. A big thanks to Hot 4 Gerry, a faithful reader and astute critic of the story. Always appreciate your feedback. :) Happy reading to all._

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Part 26: The Walls Close In

The shuffle of heavy footsteps through dirt, rock and stone overtook the cavern's previous silence. Surrounded by nothing but endless dark, the troop of officers marched forward in their diligent pursuit, ignoring the scurrying rats and laborious spiders that spun their intricate webs with care and detail. Only Raoul's gaze paused momentarily on the arachnids' exertion, and he mused how patiently the spiders worked in the hopes their creations would catch prey. It seemed a mocking parallel of the situation the group presently stood in.

"Doesn't get any better than this, ay men?" spoke Captain Devereaux, a wild glint in his dark eye, his booming boasts thundering through the cavernous walls. "The thrill of the hunt, the adventure of anticipation, the ardor of…."

"For God's sake, Raoul, would you tell that man to be quiet? Doesn't he realize his ramblings can give away our position?" Christine whispered to her husband with urgency. Her stomach muscles tightened within her, and she felt the baby kick wildly. "Perdonne-moi, mon petit. Everything will be all right," she assured her unborn child, placing one hand over her belly; the other hand clenched so tightly, her knuckles turned white. Pain coursed through her body. Had it not been early on in her pregnancy, she would have suspected labor as the culprit of the sharp sting.

The young Vicomte failed to notice the soft moan escaping his wife's lips, nor did he discern her staggered step, for he focused his attention on Devereaux, petitioning he lower his voice at his wife's request or learn to communicate through non-verbal gestures.

No one, not even Christine, noticed the slow trickle of blood traveling down the Lady's legs.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

The other would-be rescue party stood shivering in the knee-deep water they could not see, but only feel soaking their sensitive skins.

"My God, this is but a fool's errand!" Delmont manage to cry through chattering teeth. "You said you came down here before, Rousseau?" The young officer lifted his large boot made heavier by the submerging water.

"Oui, but a month ago."

"But you did not view the lake?" Though Eustache could not see Delmont's face, he could only picture the look of incredulity based on the officer's impatient tone.

"Non. Everything happened so quickly." Eustache placed his hands above his forehead to stop the throbbing pain he relived from the attack.

As if sensing what his patient felt, Bruyere interjected. "Do not press him for answers he is neither physically, mentally nor emotionally ready to give."

_What kind of team is this?_ Delmont questioned. A man with limited memory in an emotionally fragile state, a woman who clung to him so tightly, he felt the circulation slowing in his arm, and an elderly physician with no training in combat or weaponry. They were sitting ducks in the madman's labyrinth.

"Ooh!" cried Miried, reaching for Delmont's shoulder, practically toppling the guard into the frigid water. Luckily, something broke both their falls, though Delmont's backside suffered severely at its discovery.

"What is this?" he cried, his fingers traveling over the unknown item. Firm, steady. Making a fist, his knuckles pounded against its surface. Wooden. And….

"I feel an oar!" Miried called in Delmont's ear, piercing his sensitive eardrum.

"Madamoiselle!" He desperately wanted to admonish her with a series of frightful vulgarities, but called for self-control. He needed to save his energy for the true enemy.

Despite the perfect dark of their surroundings, the other two men made their way towards Delmont and the still struggling damsel. Bending, they too felt the object that proved to be the foursome's salvation.

"A boat!" Eustache called out. "Of course!"

"Of course, what?" Delmont questioned. There seemed nothing apparent or explicable in finding a boat in an abandoned lake behind hidden walls. On the contrary, the discovery heightened his apprehension as to what other surprises might be in store.

"After I was struck, this so-called Phantom grabbed Rosalie and took her behind these walls where he had the boat ready. Should someone discover the secret entrance, certainly they would not think to search beyond the water's perimeter. Truly, mad genius." Eustache could not avoid dropping a compliment to the well-calculated craftiness of his nemesis. It caused him to shudder all the more for his love's well being.

"The boat's being on this side would mean he is about, would it not?" Bruyere questioned, turning his head nervously about to see through the thick blackness.

Eustache shook his head. "If rumors are correct, he is perhaps above ground serving his nightly rounds. A Phantom does not acquire his reputation through idleness. And if he is about, which in all likelihood he is…."

"That would mean the Comtesse should be in his secret lair alone," Delmont finished, at last understanding.

Though Eustache knew none of the others could see, he nodded. With a surge of strength, he pushed the boat off the edge and ordered his three companions inside.

"Nay. I insist we turn back to report my findings," Delmont said. "Now that we have discovered this passageway, I can return with reinforcements."

"Do not make the mistake of underestimating him. He is no ordinary man. Perhaps he is staking the grounds and has spotted the small militia surrounding the Opera House. If such is the case, time is short. I know the guards seek the glory in capturing such a man, but my mind is bent on rescue. There's only one person pressing me forward at this time. You go and get your guards, but when you return, I assure you this boat will not be here."

"Your love for this woman spurs you to foolish action," Delmont stated accusingly.

"So it does, but it spurs me to action nonetheless."

"Oh, let us go, Monsieur Rousseau. I, too, am eager to find Mistress," Miried's voice piqued through the waters.

"Fine, fine. Let us hasten," Delmont conceded. The officers above could carry out the search above, while the small band conducted the impromptu rescue below. There would be fame if they were victorious, hailed as the Comtesse's saviors, but if they proved unsuccessful…. Delmont hoped at least one of them survived to tell the tale.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

The master builder crafted the Lair with his own personal ingenuity. In the underground tunnels laid a series of traps, or as the engineer so cynically referred to as, "unique additions".

Erik moved through the cold walkways with a certainty in both step and manner. His home, he could traverse blind should the need arise. Rosalie followed, baffled by the quick turns. All the walls looked the same, all the corners identical; the dim yellow orange light of his lantern illuminated only a three, at best four feet's distance ahead. Yet, Erik knew exactly where to turn, when to walk with a heavy stride or as light as air.

Rosalie's lilac gown continued to tear away with every step. The elegant dress caught on jagged rocks and protruding corners of walls. The last rent in the garment gave a loud sound, declaring the poor robe's demise.

"Erik, you wouldn't have an extra pair of trousers I might borrow?" She sheepishly asked.

Disembarrassed, Erik paused and returned to the woman but a few steps behind. "Take off the dress," he ordered.

"What?"

"Take it off. The damn thing is torn to shreds and only serves as a hindrance. I'd have you remove your petticoats as well, but fear the cold walls will chill you to the bone."

"Erik-"

"Rosalie, I am pressed for time. I gave you an order. Do not make me give over to desperation." The controlled energy in his voice caused Rosalie's flesh to cover with goose pimples, and without issuing another complaint, she made a motion to remove the dress, but in reaching her trembling fingers around her back, found a new dilemma.

"Erik, I need your help. There are too many buttons."

Without words, Erik turned the Lady around, his hands using more force than she prepared for. Rosalie gave a quick gasp and shivered when she felt the sleek leather move over her neck and upper back.

"Oh, Erik," she could not help but gasp.

"We have no time for this. Sometimes I wonder if you have not grown mad indeed. Keep yourself cool and leveled. You will need it." With a sudden tug, Erik pulled the upper half of the garment in half, sending it to its end. He flung it to a corner of the wall, his illuminated eyes watching as it crumbled to a heap on the floor. Leaving the trace of evidence was not the best way to cover his tracks, but he knew no one followed. He merely had the one group, led by his fair Christine and her idiotic husband, who he was certain were halfway to his lair.

By now, Erik stood certain of Christine's betrayal, and though his instinct cried revenge, he would pursue a higher course. However, his new plan involved more murderous threats and vindictive craftiness, but his diminished conscience felt no force of guilt at the plan. He rationalized he did not initiate the defensive action; it stood on the shoulders of those who sought him, sought his life and blood. He hoped all would be put to rest that night.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

A band of four, noiselessly drifted in the dark, in the night. Allowing the current to carry them, they paddled only to the barest minimum, terrorized lest the sounds they made were heard. Thankfully, the gondola had a lantern, which the men procured to light.

Miried sat in a corner of the small boat, issuing prayer after prayer for her Mistress' life.

What would she do if they found her otherwise?

Eustache spoke not a word. His mind bent on the nearness of their destination, he felt his heart would leap forth from his chest. Too long had he put off the conviction that kept him alive all these months. How would he react to see her? How would he behave to feel her in his arms? He shuddered to keep his mind focused for his premature musings would not guarantee their safety.

Delmont kept his hand steadily on the trigger. Steady and prepared.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

After wading through water and dirt and grime, there stood a clearing for the large group on their hunt. Christine paused with her hand clutched to her heart. So neared the end….

_Poor, unhappy Erik!_

Christine recollected when last she stood in the surrounding confines. How she had lifted the dark mask to his putrid deformity and for the first time had seen something besides the monster he displayed. She found a broken man, more twisted and deformed than his visage. But for the first time, she saw his heart.

As if coming to her senses, Christine blinked and shook her head. Already, the men pushed past her, rushing ahead to the home they would soon breach. Assuming positions, they lifted their shotguns, ordered to fire at the smallest disruption.

"W-wait." Her lips moved with the word, but her voice did not audibly carry the message across. Her mind viewed the movements of the men slowly as if in a fog. She saw gestures and hurried motions, arms flailing, legs running, but her mind could not comprehend them.

The men moved ahead of her, quickly, clumsily. Heavy footed they entered. The echo of their boots beating in Christine's mind.

And then all went dark, and Christine felt herself slip away.

"Christine!" Raoul cried out for his wife amidst the real darkness surrounding them. His heart raced wildly in the significance of what happened. _He_ had found them. The Phantom had found them. "_Christine!_" he shrilled.

"Did you not want us to be quiet?" Deveraux yelled back in the direction of the voice. "Get yourself and your wife out of here! Go! We can handle this!"

"Where is my wife?" Raoul called urgently in the dark. "Pull your men out!"

"What? In our moment of triumph? What the devil is wrong with you? You served in the military. Show some backbone, lad!"

The mad shuffle and frenzied steps of men's voices heard to and fro, as each looked for orders, for something. And then yells. Blood curling, petrified screams filled the air. And a woman's voice from somewhere. Was it a woman's voice? Voices all around, above, below, behind.

"It is him! He knows an art of deception!" Raoul yelled above the screams.

No one heard him.

"Fire!" Deveraux commanded.

"_No! Hold_!" Raoul screamed back. "My wife! My child!"

"Get your wife _out of here_!"

"I don't know where she is! Christine! _Chris-tine_!"

A single shot echoed through the flat. The men stayed deathly still for a moment, wondering in which direction the shot came from. They called out to one another, but as everyone yelled at once, no one could hear what happened. And soon more shots followed.

Raoul threw himself to the ground, repeatedly calling his wife's name.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

"Did you hear that?" Miried gasped clutching Dr. Bruyere's arm.

The four alighted from the boat, only to hear panicked cries and the rapid thumping of feet from behind the walls.

"It sounds like an army's in there!" Eustache cried.

"The squadron made it!" With new strength, Delmont ran happily up a slope of rocks to reach a door. He knocked wildly at it, but his pounding could not be heard above the maddened noises and frenzy on the opposite side.

"What is going on in there?" He cried, shaking the wooden panel. With the butt of his rifle, he hammered against the door.

"Wait, wait. This could be a trap!" Esutache cried sprinting towards him.

"All the more reason I should be in there!"

"You are one and they are twenty. What more can you do?"

From the corner of her eye, Miried saw a shadow move.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

"Is she all right?" Rosalie gasped at the sight of Christine's bloody legs as Erik laid her with great care on the ground.

"She is hemorrhaging and poised to lose the baby." Erik told her, his tone flat and indifferent. "We must move her to another room."

"And Raoul?"

"The Vicomte can meet me in the depths of hell," Erik growled, sprinting to his feet and away, his dark form blending with the perfect dark. He would return to the room and continue with his theatrics hoping the men would shoot themselves to death.

Christine offered a soft mumble, perhaps one of pain. Rosalie clasped her sister's hand, tears filling her eyes. She could not lose this baby. Rosalie would not allow. Desperately, she moved away from her position behind the wall…

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

While Eustache and Delmont worked to break the door down, Miried called to the doctor. "There is something but a few yards from here."

The doctor's form stiffened at the news and he slowly crept to the two men struggling to get to the other side of the wall.

"Eustache!" Bruyere called to him in a strangled voice as he attempted to whisper, but the nerves would not allow it.

"Eustache!"

Eustache ignored the plea, consumed with his one and only thought – to save the women he loved.

"_Eustache_!"

Dr. Bruyere's voice took on a different form, one high-pitched and feminine. Eustache realized it was _her voice. _He could hear her. She cried to him in the dark. His increased love made him mad.

"Eustache! Stop! Stop! I'm here! I'm here!" Rosalie's voice rang clearly through the damp cave.

This time everyone heard it.

Delmont spun so quickly, he almost knocked Eustache down. And all eight pairs of eyes seemed to unanimously lift towards the wall on the far left. They heard quick steps and then the most beautiful vision appeared before them. Dressed in her chemise, corset, and petticoat, she stood barefoot, dirty and pale; the dark hair loosened wildly about her, each of them wondered if perhaps they were not the victims of hallucination.

"Rosalie?" Eustache whispered, wondering if after all this time, he could be so blessed to find her with such ease.

The Comtesse sprung to her dear friend, enveloping him in an embrace. However, celebration was short-lived as Christine's state took precedence over all. Tugging his hand, she spoke quick words in high-pitched tones. None of it made sense to Eustache who struggled with reality, but of this he was certain:

Rosalie stood before him, alive, and as beautiful as ever, and pulling her wildly towards him, he let out a profound sob and planted a deep kiss on her lips


	33. Part 27: The Chaos Underground

Part 27 – The Chaos Underground

Unable to extricate herself from the loving embrace, Rosalie twisted her head away.

"Eustache!" she cried for what seemed the twentieth time that night. "Eustache, there is much that needs to be explained, but at this moment I need your help!"

"Mistress!" Shrieked Miried, fainting into Bruyere's arms. The small doctor nearly fell alongside the maid to the floor, while Delmont rushed at Rosalie with a series of questions none of which the Comtesse could answer, barely able to breathe under Eustache's tight hold.

"Rosalie," the love-smitten man whispered. His eyes saw nothing other than the goddess before him. The cries and gunshots clamoring loudly from the other room grew distant. Even Rosalie's speech, which rang in a honey sweet tone, sounded garbled and far away. Bewitched as he was, Eustache moved in to capture a second kiss.

Managing to extricate a hand from their wedged bodies, Rosalie delivered a sharp strike across Eustache's right cheek. "Please, Eustache! Snap out of it! I need your help now!"

The blow revived the man, and after a series of rapid blinks, he released the Lady. "Forgive me," he sputtered. "It is the joy in seeing you alive. But are you all right? Are you hurt in any way? Where are your clothes?" Removing his jacket, he placed it around her, not wishing to become distracted by her heaving bosom and noticeable curves. "We must take flight before The Phantom notices your disappearance. Only outside will you be out of danger." _Even then, I am not so certain,_ but he would not speak the thought out loud.

Rosalie shook her head. "I was never in any danger! But-but there's no time to discuss that." Grabbing his hand and tugging at him, she managed to lead the lovelorn gentleman to the semi-conscious Christine. The sight of the woman's bloody legs made him start and come to his senses. He ran back, this time for Bruyere, who passed the still form of Miried to Delmont, both men ran back to the bleeding woman.

Bruyere grabbed Christine's cold wrists feeling for her pulse. He then opened one eye to look at the pupil, but the darkness proved difficult to measure her reactions accurately.

"I must take her above ground immediately. It's difficult to tell, but my initial feeling is that the wall lining of her womb has detached."

Rosalie quickly covered and uncovered her eyes. "Why is she here? Why would she be so foolish? Dear God, if she's here – Raoul!"

Eustache grabbed Christine's crumpled form and without answering, made his way to the gondola. When he placed her on the boat, he turned for Rosalie only to discover she had fled.

"What? Where the hell is she?" He cried aloud. No one could answer. "What devilry exists down here?"

Bruyere laid a hand on his shoulder. "If we do not move this woman immediately, she will lose her child and possibly her life."

"All right. Delmont return with Bruyere and Miried up to the surface. There isn't much we can do with unconscious women strewn to the ground."

"I can't leave my company!" Delmont bristled at the idea.

"You must! The Vicomte would never forgive anyone if he lost both his wife and child. Do it, man and do it quick!"

Delmont nodded, hoisting the fainted woman in his arms. As he spun towards the boat, Eustache reached for the shotgun laying discarded on the floor and ran in the dark after his beloved.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

Amidst the gunfire and turmoil, Raoul continued to cry out for his wife until his parched throat gave out. In a matter of moments all quieted.

Slowly, Raoul rose to his feet. Even in the darkness, he could tell a thick cloud of smoke hung in the air due from the shots. Moans and soft cries echoed softly in the distance and with tentative steps, Raoul felt his way through the room. He tripped a few times over something large and bulky – someone's lifeless form. Then he would kneel and ascertain none of them were Christine.

After crouching down for the tenth time, he released a desperate, frustrated cry, angry tears in his eyes.

"And so we meet again," a devilish voice seemed to call into his ear. "Did you miss me?"

The unforgettable tones made the young Vicomte break out in a cold sweat. He stood and spun around towards the voice, and saw something he wished he never had. The Phantom was behind him, in all his malignant glory, but his unmasked face proved too terrible to fix a deteremined gaze upon, and so he looked away. Small drops of perspiration slicked his forehead, hardly visible to the naked eye, but Erik's vision immediately noted the sign of fear. He relished the triumph.

"Did I not tell you once to keep a better watch on your wife?" Erik handed the small lantern in his hand to Raoul, and took advantage to step closer to the cowering Vicomte.

Raoul released a shaky breath, attempting an erect stance despite the violent tremor of limb and voice. "Where is she? Where is Christine? I beg you…."

"You beg me? You _beg_ me? Did you not come here to kill me? By the way, who masterminded his brilliant operation, for I cannot possibly credit the Police in finding my Lair. Could it possibly have been your wife? Do you know where she is?"

"Please-"

Erik made a "tsk" sound, wishing to torment Raoul a bit longer, not entirely sure how long he could withhold his mounting anger. "You realize she has a habit of disappearing on you. Why is that?"

"Erik-,"

The Phantom's hard sardonic laugh drowned out Raoul's gentle pleas. "Now it is Erik? I barely know how to receive such friendship and cordiality from you." Erik reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the mask, returning it to its customary location. He hoped the action would return the Vicomte's backbone. "Thanks to your ineptness and stupidity your wife stands poised to lose her child."

A deep cry that sounded more like a strangled mare emanated from Raoul's chest. At that same moment, Rosalie cried out for Erik, the Lady grasping at the stubborn darkness surrounding all. She felt her way through the mass of fallen soldiers.

"Dear God, these men are all dead!" she cried, tripping over a body and lurching forward to both Erik's and Raoul's outstretched arms.

"No fault of mine," Erik stated coldly, as he steadied her, noting the waistcoat of a man perched around her shoulders. The Vicomte still wore his….

"Rosalie!" Raoul cried, a quick thrill of happiness at seeing his sister-in-law. He enveloped her in his arms.

Erik's eyes fired in the dark. "Yes, Vicomte, take a quick look at your sister, for you will never see her after this moment."

"What?" Raoul cried pulling Rosalie closer to him. He eyed her tattered undergarments and at once suspected the worse.

Rosalie raised a hand to her brother's lips. "Do not fret for me, Raoul, but for Christine. Go to her. The doctor who came with Eustache will take her above to a hospital. Her lining has ripped."

At the mention of Rosalie's dear friend, Erik stood erect clenching his fists. "Your lover is here?" He looked her over again a second time, realizing her lips were swollen, as if crushed to someone….

At that moment, Eustache's voice echoed through the dark. "Rosalie!"

Erik stared at Rosalie huddled deep in Raoul's protective embrace. Possessive anger and madness consumed him, and dared not know how to react, but love cooled the rising heat, and instead indecision overtook him. The Comtesse claimed her love, but how did she feel since seeing _him_? Watching her carefully, Erik said, "He calls for you."

Rosalie's purple eyes sparkled in the night surrounding them. Extracting herself from Raoul, she kept her gaze fixed on Erik's. "You are my only lover. I am to stay here, or go wherever you go."

Raoul clasped her arm. "Rosalie, this is lunacy. Look at all the men who died to find you! You cannot be serious in staying here with him. He's mad." He whispered the last two words, as if revealing a great secret.

"And I have grown mad beside him."

"So it appears."

Eustache's voice grew louder. He neared them.

"Go to your wife, Raoul. I – I cannot be there, but she is in my prayers."

"Don't do it. I beg you."

Having heard enough, Erik stepped forward, extending his hand toward Rosalie. "Vicomte, you press your luck with each word uttered. You have your own matters to tend. Again, you neglect the jewel I entrusted you. Perhaps Christine would have fared better having stayed with me."

The insult took immediate effect. In blind fury, Raoul lunged for Erik, grabbing his shoulders and flinging him aside. Caught off guard, Erik staggered at the sudden attack, disbelieving the Vicomte's foolishness. Hot blood curdled over his cold body. He had had enough of this young brat, a man who had never known a moment's suffering. Perhaps the death of his wife and child would serve him best, that was if Erik didn't kill him first.

In a mere matter of seconds, Erik had Raoul by the throat, lifting him onto his toes, while Rosalie screamed and cried, attempting to pry the taller man off the young boy.

The Comtesse's agonized yells made it easy for Eustache to find her, and what he viewed chilled him to his core. The shadowy figure of a masked man strangled Philippe's brother while his widow did what she could to save the latter. Still he could not figure why she cried to Erik. Who was Erik?

One more sound would fill that room. That of a solitary shot aimed at the back of the assailant's head.


	34. Part 28: The Final Requital

Part 28: The Final Requital

A tangled mess of bodies fell to the floor in a great thud. The Phantom retained Raoul in his strong grasp and when his body lurched forward, he toppled over the younger man still writhing from the vice like grip Erik held around his neck. Rosalie, desperately trying to break Erik's death hold on the Vicomte, tumbled as well, unable to extract herself in time.

"Erik!" she screamed, discovering the rapid flow of fresh blood dripping down his neck. She spun around narrowing her eyes in the dark, hearing the hurried steps of another.

Rosalie threw her body over her lover's, desperate to protect the injured frame from any more attacks. She felt the rise and fall of Erik's chest as her own form rose and lowered above it. Hot tears ran down her cheeks viewing the blood on her own hands.

"No, God! No! You cannot take him like this!" She cried, arguing with her deity over the man's life.

"God does not want him," Raoul muttered sarcastically, finally breaking free from the unconscious Erik's hold. He shook his head in disgust at the apparent spectacle Rosalie displayed. "Do not mourn the loss. If ever anyone deserved condemnation, he was the one."

At the sound of such cold contempt, it was Rosalie's turn to lunge for her brother-in-law. With savage fury, she clawed at his face, nearly gouging his eyes. "No one told you to come! Damn you, Raoul de Chagny!"

Grabbing the new set of hands that attacked him, Raoul pushed Rosalie aside and she fell to the floor in a heap. He pointed to the dying man. "Is this not what you wanted! To see Philippe's murderer put to justice! Where lie your loyalties, Rosalie? What do you believe in now?" he questioned angrily.

Witnessing all, Eustache immediately kneeled by Rosalie's side. Though terribly confused by her behavior, his heart filled with nothing more than compassion. She had been a hostage too long and of course, felt confusion, perhaps even a twisted sense of allegiance towards her captor. "My love, we are to leave now."

Rosalie's face turned to her friend, incognizant of whom she viewed. She saw male features and heard a deep voice, but the visage blurred and the tone sounded garbled. Somehow, she managed to respond in a flat tone.

"I am not your love."

Deciding he had seen enough, Raoul ignored his pathetic sister and instead turned to Eustache. "Thank you. I am indebted to you for succeeding where I have twice failed. God knows had I managed the victory the first time around, none of this would happen." He shook the older man's hand. "I need to hasten to Christine."

"Bruyere took her in the gondola. She is with a guardsmen. Godspeed, Raoul."

Shaking his hand again, Raoul took flight and soon disappeared, enveloped by the dark.

Eustache took a moment to stare at the lifeless form on the floor. "Is this…? The Phantom?" he asked in wonder and mystery more to himself than at the unresponsive woman by his feet. Crouching, he placed the gun aside and meant to turn the long body over when he felt an arm around his neck. Surprised was he to find a distraught Rosalie pulling him back.

"Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him!" she shrieked. Eustache felt her fists pummel against the back of his head and shoulders; standing, he grabbed her by her wrists, pulling her to her feet. He would shake some reason into her.

"Damn it woman, what is the matter with you? This is your captor! He's dead! You should rejoice alongside the souls he murdered!"

"And today you have earned his reputation," she cried freeing one hand and again striking his face. "Get away from me! Let go and leave us be!"

Eustache stared at the woman before him. The features he knew well, the purple eyes, the long black hair, the tender lips, all imprinted in his memory as if the face were his own. But this new character he could not account for. This was not the Rosalie he risked life and limb for. However, his love too great to leave her in the dark with a soon rotting corpse, he grabbed the shrieking woman in his arms and hoisted her fighting form over his shoulder.

The suffering cries were heard long after both disappeared into the dark. After some time the Lady's yells grew silent and still, and a strange sense of eerie order returned to the underground haunts. There in the Lair's eternal night lay multiple bodies soon to be fetched by other officers. The soldiers were to have an honorable burial, the madman to be made a spectacle of.

Yet two hours later, when a new band of troops came to retrieve the dead, only the officers' bodies were located. Once again, living up to his reputation, The Phantom had vanished, leaving behind not a spot of blood. However, this new knowledge was kept from the public, shared only with the young Vicomte and the older Eustache. As both returned from the station in the coach, they observed an unsettled silence. Raoul broke it first.

"We will not tell Christine or Rosalie." It seemed he spoke a resolution aloud. "All they need know he is dead. They will suffer and mourn and forget," Raoul stated with contempt, though he knew in his heart the wish was futile. None could forget The Phantom. Dead or alive he haunted them daily.

"Christine certainly does not need to know. Thank goodness, she is stable. She cannot travel north for some time." Eustache sighed deeply, hoping to relieve the tension in his form. He did not speak his worries for the other woman audibly.

"No, impossible. We will have to wait for the child's birth and a few weeks after. We will stay in Philippe's home. It will be a positive change to the home's listless atmosphere, and Rosalie needs to be around people."

"Meaning, we need to keep an eye on her until she comes to her right mind," Eustache finished angrily, glancing out from the coach's window. "Since her fury quieted, she remains catatonic."

"Time. Time will heal everything. She is a logical woman. In an ambience of love, her mind will soon heal." Raoul gazed out from the opposite window, staring at the bustling streets of the new day. How could life not pause amidst the tragedy and turmoil that had taken place beneath the city? The Vicomte shook his head at such ironies.

"His name is Erik?" Eustache asked suddenly, turning to face Raoul.

"Yes. It _was_," the lad bravely countered, refusing to look back at the gentleman as he stroked his neck. He could still feel the death grip.


	35. Part 29: A Wandering Spirit

Part 29: A Wandering Spirit, A Wayward Child

Rosalie sat in the massive oak rocker near her bedroom window overlooking the grand lawn. The gentle tune of the wooden chair squeaking against the floor panels filled the room as she rhythmically moved herself back and forth. Despite the soft sound and caressing breeze entering the quarters, there was no gentility within the woman. Her hardened face bore a stoic expression, her loosened hair hung wildly about. The silk black dress cloaking her slender frame covered almost every part of her body, sheltering her neck, obscuring her ankles and hiding her wrists. For the second time in the span of a year, she represented a despondent soul in mourning.

She grieved alone, wordlessly, much like a ghost. Since the day Eustache plucked her from the underground depths, her protests, as all her words, muted. The hot storm of tears dried. Her turmoil suffered by no one other than herself. She neither required nor wanted anyone's pity. Any such sentiment would be a great act of hypocrisy as none cared for _him_.

Yet paradoxically, her house rang with laughter and life again. Against her unspoken wishes, her brother-in-law had moved in temporarily with his expecting wife. Eustache frequented the home, claiming to inquire after Christine's progressing health and to chat with Raoul, but Rosalie knew the real reason. He kept a faithful vigil over her. They all did. Behind their careless smiles and pleasant conversation, an ever-fixed gaze stood on alert. Each wanted to make sure she did not flee in the middle of the night to return to her dead lover.

_Dead_. Such finality in the word. Her heart ached and wept in a manner none could ever know, because as the matter stood she was to blame for Erik's death. She had set everything in motion from the night she visited that Opera House to question the managers. The first time Erik haunted her, came to her.

What a different creature she was then. Her sense of justice and morality mingled with self-righteousness. She saw the world in two extremes: Right and wrong, black and white, good vs. evil. The Phantom represented nothing but evil to her, a malevolence she set out to expunge at once. Not only had she been self-righteous, but she had also given herself too much credit believing she could solve Philippe's murder.

_Did you mean to fight with reason? Or conscience? Have you come here to give me a stern reprimand? Lecture me to death, perhaps?_

Rosalie recalled Erik's taunts from the first evening they had dinner together. The fateful night he locked her in his coffin. How desperately she had fought back when returned to her bedroom… and then she saw. Dear God, how she saw. And in seeing, she learned. For his face did terrify, not because of his deep deformity. No. His face terrified because it served as a window into one's soul. And what was worse? To look mangled on the outside, or to be a ruined human being inside?

The Comtesse caught bits of conversation from down below. They all thought her out of touch with the world. She had heard them say as much. The group worried about her, about everything. Especially the men. When forced to sit with them for an hour or two daily, Rosalie would give quick glares in their directions. She was surprised to discover fear in their eyes and could not help but wonder at it. Fain would she call it the plaguing of a guilty conscience, but it seemed greater, almost as if they suspected a resurrection of sorts. Truly, a vengeful spirit would be something to dread.

She rocked some more, and so consumed was Rosalie by her thoughts, she failed to notice the breakfast tray's arrival. Spying the cart when it stood practically at her elbow, she turned her eyes to the responsible individual, expecting to see faithful Miried who waited on her day and night with unceasing patience. Instead, she found Eustache.

Rosalie cast him a dark glance, then turned her head away, back to the nothingness she focused on so diligently before.

Eustache watched her a moment in quiet contemplation. She meant to deter him with her stony silence, and though it broke his heart to see what little esteem she had for him, he resolved not to leave until he had his answers. In short, he meant to provoke her into speaking.

He began his cruel game by picking up a saucer and placing the breakfast strawberry tarts with a bit of millet gruel on the side. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?" He paused in both speech and action as he gazed upon her. She remained as living marble. Continuing, he offered her his most gallant smile. "I thought we'd take a turn through the orchards I know how fond you are of the flowers this time of year."

Rosalie swallowed the answer on the tip of her tongue, but to do so, she literally gulped. The miniscule action was not lost on Eustache, whose hopes grew in being its sole witness.

"Spring time is akin to the renewal of things. Rebirth, you understand. But it is more closely related to lovers as well. Warm sunshine and blooming flowers are said to evoke loving sentiments. It brings about all sorts of mating rituals in all of God's creatures, man included."

Rosalie's eyelids fluttered briefly. She did not like the flow of conversation and Eustache knew it. She would soon condemn him to hell, at least he hoped.

"I can see the logic of nature bringing out such feelings in people. It is expected nature mingled with beauty would bait people into attraction, but I am terribly perplexed by your case."

The lady's head turned swiftly in Eustache's direction. An angry blush spread through her features.

Pulling out the small table, Eustache set down the plate and cup of tea before her. He then took another chair and moved closer, a dangerous feat. For all he knew, Rosalie could fling the hot drink in his face, but it was a risk he felt necessary.

"You see, _you_ were hidden from nature. You stood in an underground dungeon for weeks, seeing no one but your captor. You had no entertainment, no diversion, no beauty to surround you, and yet-" he struggled to spurt the words, "you fell in love."

Eustache paused again to watch her lips curl tightly in their corners. It pained him to pain her, and he wanted nothing more to drop balm into the wound issued, but he could not, all patience at an end.

"What happened, Rosalie? I ask you as your friend. We could speak so freely before all this. You are a victim of terrible circumstances, but it does not follow you should remain there. You are safe. You are free. But your freedom at this point is physical. You are still held captive in your mind, and-" Eustache rushed through the remainder of his sentence. "In your heart."

Eustache's gaze never left the Comtesse, the lone tear trickling down her smooth ivory cheek piercing his heart. His fingers itched to wipe the droplet, but composing himself he instead urged her to eat.

Finally she spoke. "I am not hungry."

Eustache nodded. "Miried has told us you pick at your meals like a bird and then spend mornings and nights regurgitating the small morsels you consume. Rosalie, you wither away. You must nourish yourself."

Rosalie wiped the edge of her lip, feeling for any residual vomit she may not have wiped from earlier on. Finding none she grew incensed at Miried's betrayal.

"She had no business to speak so freely."

"She had every business to do so." Eustache slammed his fist into his palm. "Did you forget she too risked her life to bring you home? Does that all mean so little to you? Is Erik the only thing that matters in your life? He is gone! Can you not face that!" His tone rose angrily with each question.

Rosalie attempted to keep her voice flat, her tone even. She succeeded in doing neither. "He is gone because you took him from me!"

"As he took your husband from you!"

"_And I'm daily thankful for it_!" Rosalie shrieked, her words echoing in the room, down the hall, shaking every corner of the house. Not a living creature dared stir when they heard her shrills.

Eustache stared at Rosalie as if beholding a shrieking demon, her confession beyond anything he could have expected. So aghast was the expression on his face, Rosalie was forced to look away, slinking into her seat once more.

After several minutes of shocked silence, Eustache finally dared speak. "I mistook you for someone with heart and conscience. What happened to you? Apparently you sold your soul to the devil."

She shrank away at the declaration, though her spirit remained as fiery as ever. "If the devil is Erik, then yes! Now condemn me to hell and speak no more!"

It seemed Eustache would take her advice. With an abrupt stand, his eyes flashed angrily at the Comtesse while his face heightened in color. Rosalie lowered her eyelids and feeling a wave of nausea rise over her, reached for the pail Miried kept by her bedside, regurgitating several times into it.

Viewing his beloved so ill, his heart softened at once, and Eustache moved to her side, pulling the long tresses away from her face, taking the liberty to massage her back. "You are unwell. Let me fetch the doctor."

"Thank you, but no," Rosalie said with a languid sigh, seeming to recollect a bit of her manners and displaying a bit of her formal noble behavior. She wiped her mouth with the linen napkin from the cart.

The return of lady-like normalcy gave Eustache true reason to hope that although it would take time, Rosalie could return to reason. She needed the love of her family and friends to vanquish the power the man held over her, but it could happen. Deciding to take a risk, he pulled one of her frail hands in his own. Weak and tired as she was, she made no motion to draw it back.

"Rosalie, you do know how much I love you."

Again, Rosalie closed her eyes and remained mute.

"Your happiness is all that matters to me. I - I know at times you were discontented with Philippe. I could see it, but who was I to come between you and my friend?"

Rosalie eyed her friend sadly, shaking her head. "You could not, Eustache. Do not make yourself unhappy with the memory." The recollection alone distressed her.

"But I am unhappy, dearest. I failed you all this time. I failed you all along. I should have been an ardent lover. I should have fought for your hand at once. But I stood aside placidly as I always have. Take that horrible night for example."

Rosalie lifted her free hand in an effort to stop his painful language. "Eustache, please-"

"But I've emerged a stronger man, Rosalie, and I refuse to live with regret."

"Eustache, stop-"

"I love you!" the impassioned man cried out.

"I am pregnant!"

The fervent bliss of love that shone in Eustache's face paled in light of the brutal declaration. Feeling as if he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water, Eustache gasped and sputtered.

"W-what? H-h-how?"

"Eustache, certainly you needn't be schooled in how a woman becomes impregnated," Rosalie quipped, the small smile on her lips displaying a bit of her cynical wit.

Many minutes passed in which the gentleman could not speak a word. The ticking of his pocket watch resonated in the room. His dark eyes held her lighter ones for several long moments. Finally, when he trusted himself at last he spoke.

"_He_ is the father."

"He _was_ the father, until you killed him."

Eustache almost started at the accusation, forgetting for the time he withheld vital information from her. What chance had he now under such circumstances? She would have to be put away, hidden somewhere where she'd be free from society's mockery and contempt. Unless….

Still retaining her hand in his own, Eustache pushed the cart out of the way and knelt on one knee before her. Rosalie's eyes opened wide in wonder and doubt.

"What are you doing, Eustache? Get up from there."

"We can make this right. No one need know. I offer you my hand in marriage."

With a strong tug, Rosalie freed her hand. Eustache had startled her into standing, though she rose so swiftly she staggered. He immediately took her be her elbow, leading her towards the bed. With her limited strength, Rosalie pushed him away.

"Damn you, Eustache! I do not need you to defend my honor. I am beyond these conventions!"

Forcing himself to remain calm, Eustache attempted a different approach. "Perhaps you are, but your child is not. Rosalie, I beg you to be reasonable and think of the ridicule the child would be subject to. Everyone knows where you have been. Do you want your child to hear of his father's infamy and wickedness? For that is the stigma he'll be raised with. And even if you told people he forced himself on you, which I know is not the case, people will love the baby less. Do not put your baby in such a position."

Not being completely without logic, Rosalie did pause and consider the matter at hand. The words Eustache spoke were completely within reason and justifiable. She who had wanted a child more than anything in the world could not imagine doing anything to harm the wee babe. But a major obstacle stood in the way of the plan.

"Eustache, I do not love you. Not that way."

The gentleman did not despair at her words. "Many people do not marry for love. And perhaps, with time…."

Rosalie shook her head. "I lived one life of deceit with Philippe, I refuse to do so with you. And Eustache, I cannot forgive what you have done. I simply cannot. I will move away. Sell what I can, start a life somewhere else. I can live a simple life, Monsieur."

Every muscle in Eustache's handsome face twitched. To be the object of hatred to the one person whose love he most wanted grieved his heart. The need to make amends conflicted with the promise made to the Vicomte. He turned to the open window.

"Rosalie, I can see how plainly you love this man who truly is not worthy of the gift you've given him." A long sigh expelled from his chest as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "The guards could not find his body."

The Lady started, then doubted. Grabbing one of her bedposts, she sat down slowly, short of breath, her head swimming.

"Please, Eustache. Please tell me you do not jest."

"Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. I wish it were otherwise, Rosalie. We were informed within hours after the guards recovered the dead from the Lair. His body was not amongst them. There was not even evidence of an inflicted wound." Eustache turned to see the Comtesse passed out on the bed.


	36. Part 29 Sec 2

_**Author's Note: **This has been a long time coming; I am so sorry about the loooong delay. So many things have happened. Good and bad and just the normal happenings as well. Thank you to those who have stood by, waited patiently, and never gave up on this story. Now for those of you who remember the original from way back when, this revision takes a sudden departure. Characters are changing, evolving, becoming more selfish and embittered and...well, I'll just let you read the rest._

_Forgive the shortness of this section, but it is only a shifting scene from the previous one._

_Cheers._

_~ EA_

Part 2

A distressed Comtesse laid bed ridden during the days that followed. The self-appointed residents of the home maintained a diligent watchfulness over the mentally fragile Rosalie. Difficult as the task was, Eustache kept the knowledge of Rosalie's pregnancy secret as long he could knowing such a delicate matter should be for her to reveal at her discretion; though it was only a matter of time before others knew. Such a state could hardly go unnoticed. However, until then, the gentleman would admit no one to his confidence. That was, until Miried spoke of the matter first.

"Poor Mistress. I worry so much about her and the baby," Miried revealed one afternoon as she stored freshly washed blankets in a cedar trunk.

Eustache nearly dropped the book he perused through at the acknowledgement. "You know?" he asked his eyes wide as saucers.

"Oh, yes," Miried admitted calmly, bending over to close the lid of the trunk. She allowed it to slam, satisfied with the bang of the wood on wood. It was her way of unleashing her own frustrations and concerns. "Mistress told me you knew of her state, and she admitted the matter _to me_ the first time I witnessed her regurgitate her breakfast. I was all in a tizzy, ready to fetch a doctor, not knowing what sort of illness she had caught while in her prison. As I cleaned up her - spill I suppose I should say – I pressed the matter, vexing her so greatly, she confessed she was late."

"Late?" Eustache asked dumbfounded.

Miried's rosy cheeks took on a deeper hue. "Oh, dear Monsieur. I do not know if I should convey such information to you. There are some science books that would explain…."

"No, no. I - I understand, Miried. I wasn't entirely sure what you meant by such reference to time, but I am clear. I have a married sister." Poor Eustache offered a shaky smile, only to release a long sigh, plopping into the nearest chair. There he sat for several minutes, contemplating the young maid who continued with her task at hand, wondering if they should engage in such private discussions. Eustache, finding relief in the ear of the young maid continued with the conversation. "Miried, excuse the liberty, but you do know how I feel about Rosalie?"

"Oui, Monsieur," the young lady promptly answered, her expression pure solemnity.

"I asked her to marry me. She flat out refused." A long pause followed as Eustache sank his head into his hands. "She loves that _man_." He sank further into the velvet chair that practically supported his slumped form, his body overcome with weariness of soul and spirit. "It seems I am fated to pine after a woman whom I cannot conquer. It's as if God has slated me as the man to bring Rosalie to her lovers, none of which are me." He lifted his eyes heavenward, an angry scowl forming on his lips. "I couldn't even kill him," he mumbled, dejected and embarrassed.

"Sir, forgive the liberty, but she would never have forgiven you had you succeeded," Miried stated matter of factly.

"I know that, Miried. But perhaps – with time…" Another sigh, and Eustache fixed his gaze out the window, ceasing all conversation.

How Rosalie could love a murderer – the murderer of her husband, of his best friend – was beyond him. She was not the woman he had fallen for; innocence robbed from her form, something corruptible had possessed her. What could _that man_ offer her that he could not? He could protect her, give her solace and refuge, raise the child in the ways of the Lord, make him a gentleman or turn her into a Lady. Eustache could give Rosalie so much.

After some more moments spent in quiet deliberation, Eustache decided to let Rosalie be. She would come to her senses, sooner or later. As for the knowledge that _he_ lived, well, perhaps she would now forgive him for defending his friends. After some time she would become affectionate and tender once more. She would marry him if for no other reason than gratitude. Eventually, she would grow to love him.

She had to.

As for _him_, if _he _ever tried to interfere in their lives again, Eustache would complete the task he failed to do. No one could be lucky so many times. Not even a phantom.


	37. Part 30 A Tumult of Sensations

Chapter 30: A Tumult of Sensations

Rosalie had not stepped outside of her room in a week, her servants coming to tend to her in the supposed haven of her lavish quarters. They attempted to cater to her every whim, bringing her favorite of everything – meals, flowers, fabrics, books – all to no avail. Nothing brought a flicker of a smile to her lips, the light faded from her eyes. They thought a doctor should come and examine her, so wasted did she look, but Eustache and Miried denied the request, stating her reasons more emotional than physical. The former prolonging the sensitive secret the Lady literally carried as long as he could.

There was no doubt that Rosalie's heart troubled her greatly; she would be the first to admit such. So many questions, so many thoughts raced through her. He lived! Erik lived! But _why_ did he keep away? Why had he not fought for her? The first days following the discovery of his existence spent in the disquieting reflections. Rosalie came to grips with the selfishness nature of her thoughts. The man had been shot, left for dead and there she lay in her nightgown consumed with her vanity. The days that followed left her more somber, more yielding to fate, and now she brooded with acceptance. Turning to her side, Rosalie expelled a breath; of course, he would not come. He would vanish, begin anew, and expected her to do the same. Had he not told her as much time and time again?

What would become of her? What would become of the child growing within her? Eustache's words replayed in her mind for what seemed the hundredth time. The bastard child of a murderer would receive notoriety, infamy, would be despised, rejected. The child of such a man would not be held in great esteem. She could not in good conscience do that to an innocent babe who had no say in his birth.

But to marry Eustache, to raise the child with lies, half-truths, a concealed paternity. That would be to resign herself to a new prison, one in her heart and mind. She had played the fool once before. She served as the dutiful, complacent wife. True, Eustache would be kind to her, would no doubt dote on her, love the child as if it were his own….

She did not love him.

Sacrifice or selfishness, she no longer knew. But the longer she tarried in that room with no Erik to tell her otherwise, she came to realize that she no longer could think of herself. In sin she had conceived this child; she needed to bring it some sort of redemption.

Lifting her head from the pillow, she saw it neared the eighteenth hour of the day. Eustache would call soon, would dine with de Chagneys as had been his habitual custom since fishing her from the depths of the Opera House. Best she humanize herself to some degree. An achy arm reached for her bell weak from minimal use. Within minutes she heard the light scurrying of Miriette's feet.

Curtseying as she approached the Queen Anne styled bed, she smiled tenderly at her dear Mistress. "_Oui, Madame. Qu'est-ce que je peux fair pour vous_?"

"Good Miriette," Rosalie smiled weakly. "You've been better to me than I've been to myself." The Comtesse's eyes watered suddenly, heartbreak visible in her every feature. She extended her hand to her maid – her friend. Miriette took it and found herself next to Mme. DeChagny, coddling her in her embrace while the Lady wept bitter tears.

Whom she wept for most, remained a mystery.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

"Bonsoir, M. Rousseau. You'll find Madame in the drawing room with the Vicomte and Vicomtesse."

For a moment Eustache started at the greeting, his greeting dying on his lips as he slowly registered the news the elder servant shared with him. A slow, small smile formed to his lips. She emerged of her own volition to the living. It would take time, but there was hope. Rosalie was strong; her heartache would not last forever.

Before entering the drawing room, he took a moment to adjust his cravat and straighten his jacket. He waited for the announcement and walked in, a genial and slightly excited smile on his lips.

The Vicomte and Vicomtesse immediately rose to their feet, while Rosalie stayed fixed in hers. However, she produced a small smile for him and nodded in his direction. In the second Eustache fixed his gaze on hers, he could tell of her earlier weeping, a slight discoloration stained her cheeks, and her eyes looked smaller behind the swollen folds. How he wished he could take all her pains upon himself, and free her of her emotional torment. Despite the pain in her visage, he thought her lovely dressed in her midnight blue gown, her hair elegantly drawn away from her face in soft ringlets. He tried unsuccessfully to keep the adoration hidden from his gaze, struggling to keep his sentiments in check. He had already said and done enough to leave her in doubt of the level of feeling he had. She would make the next move.

"So tell me, Raoul, are you going to leave the maison up North and return to Paris?" Eustache said after all pleasant greetings were exchanged, sitting in the seat furthest from the Comtesse.

Rosalie glanced at her brother-in-law quickly. This was the first time she had heard of such plans, and she neither welcomed not loathed the idea. They wanted to keep family together she supposed. She wondered if either of the de Chagneys suspected her state.

"Any prospects?" she mumbled quietly. All heads immediately jerked in her direction. Her powers of conversation these past days had been minimal to none.

Raoul finally cleared his throat. "Prospects? You mean potential homes?"

"Yes."

"No, not yet. Christine and I have decided we want nothing lavish, but we will need a bigger home for the child than the one we have now."

The Comtesse nodded. Deliberating a moment, she finally spoke.

"If you are interested, you can stay here permanently. I know Philippe would have it no other way." And such was true. As little as Philippe had thought at one time of Christine, he would have done much to make amends for love of his brother.

Silence filled the room. It seemed even the clock on the mantelpiece stopped its ticking to weigh in on Rosalie's offer. None knew how to interpret her sudden bout of generosity, having heard nothing from her all week long but growls and sharing in the glower of her stares.

Hoping the break the uncertain pause in the air, a rather large Vicomtesse shifted out of her seat with huffs and groans, and moved closer to her sister-in-law. "Take a turn with me, Rosalie, if you please."

Rosalie put down the crocheting she had idly fiddled with and stood alongside Christine, violet eyes meeting clear blue ones. Christine wrapped an arm around Rosalie's and they began their walk to the far end of the room, stopping at the bay window.

"Rosalie, you are not well," Christine declared softly the moment she felt they were out of earshot.

"I never denied this." There was impatience in her tone. She had been pulled from the rest of the party to hear something she knew?

"No. I have always admired that about you. You are honest to a degree I never was." She looked down at her hands, a trace of shame lingering in her angelic features. "_He_ will always be a part of our lives, you know. There is no shame in finding the will to carry on."

Rosalie turned her face, her features hardening at the topic of choice presented by the younger Lady. "This is not the time for such a discussion." Her voice was raw with emotion.

Christine continued staring at her hands somewhat swollen from water retention. "I want to give you something." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief, which she passed to Rosalie.

"I have no need for this. My tears dried a while ago," Rosalie huffed cynically. If the girl continued with this condescending behavior, she'd march herself out of the room.

"Open it," Christine urged.

Annoyance flashing over her features, Rosalie did as bid, her hardened gaze transforming into a curious one when she spied what lay in the soft folds of the material – a gold band.

"What on Earth…? Why ever would you give this to me?"

"_Erik_ gave it to me." She whispered the name softly, trying desperately to keep her tones indistinguishable from the gentlemen's ears. "He wanted me to place it in his coffin when he died. Well, he is dead now."

Rosalie started at the declaration confused by her words. She almost questioned Christine when she glanced over her shoulder at Raoul. He in turn shared an enthusiastic conversation with Eustache, but Rosalie knew it was show. From time to time, their gazes wandered over to where the women stood, both men curious as to what transpired.

She realized Christine did not know what Eustache had told her in confidence to comfort her. So that she would forgive him of what she perceived as his crime. Raoul on the other hand, kept the knowledge hidden from his wife to free her of the past.

But those manipulations, those cleverly invented stories and fabrications would never free them. They were all bound to the undergrounds of the Opera House. If Erik could not find freedom, none of them could. It seemed the Phantom left his shadow, even if he long abandoned a haunt.

"Why don't you bury it?" Rosalie asked, troubled by this offering.

"I feel the task no longer lies with me." She spoke softly, her manner embarrassed by the frank nature of the conversation. It was not in her sweet disposition to be so bold, so forward, but Rosalie would respect no other way. "I think…he would feel differently about that now. He wanted me to honor him in death, but he wanted to be loved in life. I couldn't give him that. You did." Blue eyes watered, tears threatening to spill. "I'm sorry, Rosalie. Forgive me." She turned her head away. Rosalie could hear her gasping, trying desperately to calm herself.

Christine's discomfort did not go unnoticed. Rosalie saw Raoul rise, motioning to Eustache to follow him to the other end of the room. Thankfully, the vastness of the room would grant her the precious seconds she needed to conceal the ring. Placing a quick peck on the younger girl's cheek, she spoke whispered thanks into her ear.

"I will take this from you. Thank you. Now calm yourself before your husband chastises me more." She smirked and embraced Christine, the young girl shuddering in her arms, but smiling all the same.

"Ladies, is everything all right?" Raoul asked, hurrying to place a protective arm about his wife. He cast a distrustful glance towards Rosalie.

"I said nothing," Rosalie couldn't help but remark dryly. "Pregnancies make women emotional." _I speak from firsthand experience._ She left the thought unsaid.

"She's right, Raoul. Rosalie didn't do or say anything to trouble me. I was touched by her offer of allowing us to live here. Your brother would be so proud."

Rosalie visibly flinched at the mention of Philippe again, and clutched the ring hidden by the handkerchief. Dear God, the man must roll over in his grave at the sound of his name.

Raoul seemed to think so, because he humphed softly at the declaration. Eustache could not blame him for his sarcastic responses, but he felt for Rosalie. Truth be told, he had said worse to her in the heat their argument.

Luckily, Miriette stepped in to remind the party dinner was ready. Christine linked arms with her husband, waiting for Rosalie to lead the way to the dining room. Eustache offered her his arm and delighted greatly when she only hesitated several seconds before accepting it.


	38. Part 31: The Summons

Chapter 31 ~ The Summons

A hearty meal of _coq au vin_ steamed welcomingly from elegantly set porcelain bowls for the party of four. The cooked rooster dinner aided in smoothing tensions between the individuals surrounding the banquet table each one consumed in his or her thoughts.

Christine appeared tight-lipped squinted eyed expression told of her struggle to hide her tear fest, continually dabbing at her eyes claiming them irritated. Ever lousy at her mendacities, Raoul wanted to shake the truth out of his young wife so long as it did not harm the babe. Eustache kept a solemn gaze on his meal, though his thoughts traveled elsewhere. How he longed to know what pressed most on his love's mind. Said love – whom would rather he _not_ think of her in such fashion - brooded in silence, her private meditations alternating between a masked lover and a faithful friend.

The four indeed made quite an interesting party. Dark, melancholic, worrisome…. The servants would indeed have plenty to speak of long after their masters retired.

Miriette was the only one to keep her wits about her, walking about the home with a simple ease in nature and manner. An armful of doilies in her hand, she thought about replacing one in her Mistresses' room. She had noticed the other day a miniscule tear on the fabric near the Comtesse's writing desk. Always one to keep everything in repair, she shuffled over to the Lady's abode, pausing at the door to shift the fabrics in her arm. She gave pause to her activities upon feeling a sudden and unexpected draft from that quarter.

A tremor passed from the crown of her head to the base of her spine, and she waited, a hesitant hand poised over the gold knob. "Silly girl," she chastised. "Ghost stories are over and done with." With a heavy pant, she entered.

She cast a sweeping glance about the room. Everything still, nothing in disarray, Miriette exhaled the breath she had unconsciously held. She still felt the chill in the air, but when she walked to the window to investigate found it closed. However, the drapes were pushed to either side. _That_ she had no recollection of previously doing. With a shrug she closed them, whether for a second time or not remained uncertain. Deciding she had had enough self-spooking for the evening, she shifted her mind to the reason for her errand.

But it was not meant for Miriette to have a peaceful night. Shuffling to the writing table she saw something that made her body freeze. A bit of paper sat ominously on the Mistresses' table. Miriette immediately recognized it for what it was; the skull head seal the ghost-man's signature piece. Releasing a shuddered sigh, she gingerly picked up the envelope turning it over in her hands the note addressed to one _Lady Lamarliere._

She gave another searching look about the room, half-expecting to see _something_ at her elbow. The only thing gazing was her own reflection enabling her to witness the fear and terror in her features.

Miriette heard her Mistresses' cries at night, her prayers (which she considered blasphemous) to this man, questions of his abandonment and disappearance. None answered. The Comtesses' love for this thing could not be denied, as much as everyone wished it were not so.

Did Miriette have the strength to hand over the letter? The repercussions of such actions could be devastating. Did she have the heart to deny her the knowledge? She placed the letter in her apron's pocket, hastening down the steps and to the dining room. Once outside of the door, she deliberated some more.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x

From the opposite side of the door, the sounds of strained chatter met the young girl's ears. No easy flow or pleasant conversation feared interruption. The hesitant voices forced Miriette to her decision. Upon walking into the room, she found her disturbance upon the noble couples almost welcoming.

"Miriette, am I needed?" Rosalie's curious smile replaced the dull stare previously claiming her features. She removed the napkin from her lap, ready to rise out of her seat.

"Please forgive my interference, Madame. I wish to speak to you of something." Without meaning to the young maid cast a dubious glance to Monsieur Rousseau, uncertain whether she acted accordingly or the fool.

"Is everything all right, Miriette?" Eustache could not help but speak out, though the matter clearly did not involve him. He believed himself in the servant's good graces and confidence. If there were anything amiss, surely she would tell him.

The corners of Miriette's mouth tugged upwards; a nervous smile if ever Eustache saw one. "Only matters that require the Comtesse's attention. I will keep her from you no more than five minutes if you please."

Raoul nodded, a growing suspicion gnawing at him. Glancing at his new formed friend, he could tell the same doubts dwelled inside him.

Rosalie smiled at the small crowd, curtseying as she promised her swift return. _Not that anything important was going on amongst us._ Like many other times during the course of the evening, she withheld her personal commentary, ushering herself and her maid from the room.

"Yes, Miriette?"

"Perhaps we should retire elsewhere," was the unexpected response.

Eyes widening, a hand flew to her mouth as she attempted to shield the startled gasp. Rosalie knew. Dear Lord, she _knew._ He had contacted her!

"Miriette, you have a letter?" Of course she did.

_Did you not know I am the expert note writer?_

The letter fished out of her pocket and produced, Rosalie feared to touch it, terrified of its content. She had already reconciled herself to his distance knowing he could offer her nothing more than an obscure life in isolation. She could readily live with that, but perhaps he could not. To hear – or rather read – a formal goodbye through the impersonal reach of a letter. Her hands itched to tear into the correspondence, but now was not the time knowing no matter what the letter said she would react passionately. She reached over to her maid laying an unsteady hand on her forearm.

"Leave the letter under my pillow. When all have left I will read it."

"Very good, Madame. What will you tell the party, if you do not mind my questioning? I fear the Vicomte and M. Rousseau would very much like to know the nature of the affair that presently bars their knowledge."

"I understand." Rosalie meditated a moment, her violet eyes searching about for some pretext. "Medication. You found some unknown bottle in my room I have used to aid in sleeping. Where I acquired it from, God only knows. I would not reveal the private knowledge and you deemed it necessary to dispose of the solution. How does that sound?"

"Clever cover, Madame. I am sorry I did not wait for a more opportune moment to share this."

"I am glad you did not. I cannot begin to express just how glad I am." Rosalie reached over enveloping the younger female in her embrace. "Let me return. I daresay we tarried longer than the allotted time."

Spinning on her heel, the Comtess made a motion to return to the drawing room, Miriette's shaky voice staying her step. "He loves you, Madame." Rosalie turned again, watching her servant with rounded eyes. "I speak of M. Rousseau. He cannot help but worry. He – he would be a good match. Forgive me for speaking so freely. I would like you to consider your life - all aspects - all decisions…. Again, I am sorry."

Rosalie glanced down, her mind searching for the answer evading her. She was not insensible of the advantages in attaching herself to Eustache. No one would judge her or find fault in the decision. But if the letter gave her hope, the promise of a future no one dared think possible, least of all her, did she not owe that to both of herself and Erik?

"I must go before a new search party forms," she sadly quipped. "Please do as I have bid, and you must promise to speak of this to no one." There was urgency in her tone as she issued the order.

Miriette curtsied and hurried away, a part of her cursing her own cowardice at not having burnt the letter.


	39. Part 32: Repression Turns Into Obsession

**Author's Note: **_Hello everyone. I was away on vacation with my husband. I went to Paris, France, and yes, I went to L'Opera Garnier. As beautiful as it was, I wished they had an underground layer to visit, LOL. We had safe travels, and as you can see - or read - I am returned. _

_This story is beginning to run away from me. That's what I get from straying for the original plot line. I would have been finished by now, but I wanted to humanize Eustache instead of enlisting him for sainthood as I practically did in the first version. I might be headed into the opposite direction.... Anyway, you'll see and let me know. _

_Yes, I know you're all anxiously awaiting as to what the heck is in the letter. We'll get to that, I promise, but I thought I'd make it all come about in a more dramatic fashion. All reviews are welcomed and encouraged, even the ones that are less than flattering. _

_Cheers and be well. _

Chapter 32: Repression Turns Into Obsession

The men rose at the Comtesse's return. Judging from the intense stares from both males and Christine's lower gaze, Rosalie could only surmise her sudden departure had made for much if not all the discussion in the room.

"Did you miss me?" She could barely keep the sarcastic edge out of her voice.

"Very much so," Eustache replied hoping to keep his tone light and friendly, but Rosalie could hear the concern and slight possessiveness, something she never noted before. She underestimated them. None at the table were fools. They could sense the anticipation in the air. Something significant occurred during the conversation they had been conveniently excluded from. Each had debated whether to put the question before her. Christine said patience was their best recourse. Five minutes ago the plan seemed sensible, now as Eustache watched the animated return in Rosalie's features and heard the nervousness in her voice, he began to wonder. Curiosity and the beginnings of jealousy eating at him, he voiced his concern.

"Tell us, Rosalie, what news have you?"

Rosalie smothered her anxious gaze with a gentle smile. "News? Why would you think there is news?" Proceeding to pick up her spoon, she dipped it into the torte de chocolate.

Raoul watched uneasily at his sister-in-laws deceptive arts. Truthfully, there was no deception in it; she fooled no one. Even the servants entering the room gave quick glances, wondering what could alter the Comtesse's face so. Not ten minutes prior she bore the look of one weighted. She now looked the spritely youth of ten years ago.

"Rosalie, we've had enough of your games." Eustache spoke sternly, his hand tightening into a clenched fist he kept steady at the table.

His words taken as a challenge, Rosalie lifted her gaze. Her purple eyes flashed at the spoken words, her lips curving into something of a sneer.

"I never invited you for a turn into my so-called games," her tone so icy, she chilled the air around her.

Eustache stood abruptly, the sound of the chair skid the hard wood causing Christine to gasp with fright.

"You did not invite me? You all but begged me into that labyrinth. You wept, screamed, carried on, claimed for days and days that none honored Philippe! I nearly died, and what of Raoul? Christine?"

"Eustache-" Christine made an attempt to placate him, but he would not hear it.

"These are arguments I have heard before, Eustache. Sit down and eat you dessert. If you are finished you may leave." The Comtesse hardened her heart to the accusations he laid at her charge. Her indifference sent the scorned lover into a rage.

"I thought of nothing else but you, Rosalie! I thought of no one else! Everything I've ever done, I've done for you and you alone! Can you not see this?" Eustache became oblivious to the room about him. He had convinced himself constancy and long-suffering would be the way to her heart, but now something told him he was poised on losing her completely. Something had transpired. _He_ had come to her. In what manner, in what form he could not tell. There was devilry in that man after all.

His words hurt; they cut as deeply as when he issued them the first time. Rosalie's emotions heightened in light of her recent discovery made it unbearable to sit in forced complacency. The fire brewing within propelled her out of her seat in turn, and she rushed to her friend.

"I see it all, Eustache! Well do I know how much I owe you – how much I owe you all!" Her gaze fixed to her other guests whom Eustache temporarily forgot sat in the room. "But do you want me to think of you as an obligation?"

Eustache felt too many feelings rising at once. It seemed she had made up her mind. She had decided what the rest of her life would hold - and he shared no part of it. He would make her reconsider.

"I want you to think of _me_! All you do is think of _him_, whether you hated him as you first did or loved him or mourned him!" Eustache's voice boomed in the room; his words reverberated from the walls. "Do I have no claim on your heart, Rosalie? No part that unites me to you?"

Christine looked at the couple, wondering if it were not more appropriate for her and Raoul to exit the room. The servants long had done so. She reached over and clasped her husband's hand.

Rosalie could feel her features contort with the confusion that plagued her heart. She cared for Eustache, and yes, at one point she felt stark fury – almost hatred towards him for placing her in her present, unwanted position, much as she had The Ghost. Was it not possible that she could end the foolish chases she put herself and others through, and one day love her faithful companion?

Eustache read the sentiments behind her gaze and took hope. She doubted. She wavered. Her sentiments were not absolute. Securing her hand over his, he drew her closer and pulled her into a desperate kiss. The Vicomte and his wife finally had enough presence of mind to quit the room, rushing off to their temporary quarters, hoping the couple could find their answers.

Rosalie stayed put, submissive in Eustache's tender embrace. Her mind, however, whirled at an unimaginable speed. _Do I tell him?_ _What do I tell him, and how do I say it?_

The thoughts remained tucked safely in her head as she realized Eustache was in no hurry to end his amorous assault. Gripped with jealousy and desperation he clutched her closer to him still, his hands grasping at her back and shoulders, his lips savagely claiming hers.

When she could no longer breathe, Rosalie moved her head away. "Eustache," was all she managed to gasp.

But the gentleman was nowhere near finished. Taking advantage of the angle of her upturned face, Eustache allowed his lips to claim her jaw line, traveling down to her neck, finding her pulse point. He fixed his attention there.

Rosalie's eyes widened at the sensation, but she did not panic. Eustache would not dare accost her in her own home, least of all the dining room. It was not in his nature. She stilled her jittery movements, letting him have his fill.

The fill did not happen as soon as Rosalie would like. The longer she allowed him license, the wetter his appetite became. He was a man just like any other. He had been patient all this time, but now, at such close proximity…to feel her near him…the contours of her body…the heat of her frame…. Eustache pushed the borders of her permissiveness. Truth be told, he did not even know if he could stop. Her skin so soft, so tender, so sweet….

An involuntary tremor passed through Rosalie when she felt Eustache's lips stroke the hollow of her throat. She inhaled deeply as his tongue glided against her skin eliciting a a series of small trembles from her. When she felt one of his hands ghost across her chest, she decided to cease his unwanted explorations.

"Enough Eustache," she tried to keep her voice even, but the heaviness in her words betrayed her meaning.

"Never enough, darling Rosalie. I could never have enough." He brazenly cupped her bosom through the fabric of her gown. "I have tried. God knows I have, but I can't deny myself any longer."

The first real feelings of alarm went through the Comtesse. The words did not frighten her, but the look - for Eustache had lifted his head to catch her gaze, perhaps to convey the intent behind his words. Lust gleamed from his eyes, yearning read in his lineaments. And at such close proximity, Rosalie could feel a certain protruding member hardening against her.

"There are people in the house, Eustache. I'll scream." She jerked from him, but could not get away, his grip became as iron.

Eustache loosened his hold on the Lady, and she took advantage of the slackened grasp to extract herself. "I bid you good-night, now." She meant to deliver a fierce glare, but instead looked at him piteously before turning away.

That was her mistake.


	40. Part 33: Binding Arbitration

Rosalie barely had time to gasp as she felt her body flung face forward towards the door. With outstretched arms she protected her body from full impact, attempting afterwards to support herself as she caught her breath.

_What happened?_

She made an effort to put her thought to question when she realized she could not. Eustache's hand firmly placed over her mouth prevented such actions. She tried to push away from the wall, but found herself firmly pressed against it.

Despite her alarming predicament, she was reminded of another time when pressed against a stone wall. Still, she did her best to free herself from her sandwiched confines.

"Composure, compose yourself…" he soothed near her ear. "I want to talk."

"Talk?!" she shrieked, the word nothing more than a gagged mumble. Somehow Eustache understood, nodding as he used one hand to keep her steady, the other still pressed firmly to her lips.

"I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth, Rosalie. Do not scream. Do not yell, or I will be quick to return it there." When Rosalie stilled, Eustache fulfilled his part. The hand left her mouth, but his body pressed closer than before.

No daring demonstration or high-pitched shout followed, only a straining of her head as she attempted to glare at Eustache from her limited angle.

"Eustache," she began slowly, clearly, distinctly. "You would do best to back away from me."

Eustache did the opposite, allowing his legs to grip either side of her body, his fingers playing idly with the row of buttons on her back.

"I pined for you for so long." The voice near Rosalie's ear spoke in a hushed, almost soothing tone, but it was one with a tenor never heard before. "I watched and waited and wondered…. Why did you never love me, Rosalie? Is there something about me that repulses you?"

"Excepting this moment?" Rosalie spoke swiftly though quietly, not wanting to create a more precarious position than the one she was in. But so long as they did communicate, it gave her reason to hope the situation would not worsen. She followed her reproach with a deep exhale. "You never repulsed me, Eustache. I care for you greatly, just not in the manner-"

"Why not?" he asked, his voice breaking. "That man – that man – there are no words. Everything he did, everything he is - everything should have repelled you from him."

He pushed into her, his center pressing against the small of her back.

Rosalie's head began to throb, both her position and predicament increasing the pulsating ache. "I cannot explain why things happened the way they did. From your standpoint, it seems logical that I should love you. You have proved nothing but constancy to me, but would you now shake my faith in you by hurting me so?"

"You have hurt me more than you can imagine." Truly, his voice sounded wounded, but a second later, it grew somber. "I have reached a decision, dear friend." Sweeping her hair away from the nape of her neck, he pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh he uncovered. "If he is what you want, you may have him."

Rosalie would have run out the door following such an offer, but the question remained as to where Erik's position lay. Did _he_ still want her? There was also the matter of the one hundred and eighty pound man using his mass to hold her against her will. She waited for Eustache to reveal the conditions of his sacrifice.

"But I want you to give yourself to me for one night. He may have you all the rest of his days, but for one night, my dear," Eustache began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress, "let us unite."

The Comtesse closed her eyes at the offered choice. This went against every fiber of her being, but truly, what was there to lose? She was no longer a wholesome woman. She had thrown herself at Erik's feet when he continually denied them both. Eustache was now the one inflicted with the madness she had brought from below. A part of her understood his foolish reasoning.

Another button came undone, and Eustache caressed the flesh before his vision. Soft, smooth, tantalizing, he pressed his lips to her skin.

"Eustache," her pitch rang higher than she would have liked. "I can comply with your request, but-but not here. Not in the dining room."

"Did he not ravish you in the underground caverns of an opera house?" he questioned without mercy, his fingers stroking the skin wetted simultaneously from his moist lips and her perspiration.

"That is correct. You are right." She dared not correct him by stating Erik had made love to her, not raped her, "but we have the luxury of so many rooms upstairs. We can experience bliss in comfort." Her face burned with the shame of his touches and her lies. If the Lord saw fit to strike her down now, it would be in mercy. She struggled to make her voice seductive. "My bed. Would you not like to unite in the bedchamber?"

"A hardened floor would suffice all the same."

From the way he groped and shifted against her, she could hardly doubt him. "Do you not think me worthy of such a small request?"

His hands ceased their wanton wanderings, and instead he placed the tiniest amount of distance to their bodies. In doing so, he turned her to face him. Relieved to be free from his crushing weight over hers, Rosalie kept the utmost composure to demonstrate her gratitude.

Cupping her face with his hand, Eustache neared his face to his beloved. "Rosalie, you are worth everything. You deserve the best. I do not understand how he could be entitled to such love."

Rosalie closed her eyes, refusing to see the ardor in his glance, shutting away the hurtful tone in his question.

"I will love you, Rosalie. Treat you like the goddess you are." He pressed his lips to hers. "We will make love, and it you will know it is me. You will not think of him. One night. Can you do that for me if for no other reason that you do love me as a friend?"

_Friends do not impose desperate stipulations on each other, _yet she nodded her acquiesce, reaching for his hand to lead him away from the dining room. Before she could open the door, he gripped the delicate fingers.

"Rosalie, I hope this is in earnest. I do not think I could bear another rejection. I promise to keep my part, so long as you keep yours."

Fresh tears perched in her eyes she turned and embraced her long time friend. "Dear Eustache, I will keep my promise. But if I delay too long in thought, I will not have the strength to continue."

It was Eustache's turn to nod. Knowing the house as well as he did, he scooped his fairest love in his arms and carried her to her room. Immediately, he laid her on the bed, caressing and murmuring endearments, ignoring her confused tears. Within minutes, he disrobed her, drinking in her appearance with a look that revealed tenderness and greed. Before divesting himself of his own garments, he sought to make her comfortable, removing the mountain of pillows that lay on her bed. Both paused when his hand stroked against paper. Rosalie's gaze turned with his to stare at the letter now clutched in his hands.


	41. Part 34: Discoveries

Part 34: Discoveries

For an instant, Rosalie could not understand why or how Eustache held Erik's letter in her hand.

Good God. She had asked Miriette to leave it under the safety of her pillow. What a foolish idea that turned out to be.

"How did this arrive?" the menacingly growled question awakened Rosalie from her stupefied state. Her confused gaze locked with Eustache's for he hovered no more than a foot over her. She remembered she was naked, he was desperate, and she had promised.

But the letter…!

For Eustache, the letter was like having the Phantom present in the room, watching, laughing. Mocking him. Mocking what he yearned for and could never have.

Enraged, Eustache sat upright, still straddled upon his Lady. But he no longer could make out her lovely shape or form. His world narrowed to one rather creased cream-colored bit of stationery.

The damn letter! He would rid of it now. Nothing would ruin this night! Nothing! She had promised. She promised to think of no one else…and yet she had suggested they make love in her room. All the while knowing….

"You lied."

Rosalie's eyes widened in shock, and slowly she shook her head.

"I did no such thing-"

"You lied! You promised for one night it would be only us. But you chose this room because you knew this was here. You knew he had been here." Sitting more erect, Eustache's head twisted every which way, a new idea forming over him.

"Perhaps, he is still here. Hmmm?"

Rosalie blinked. The thought had not occurred to her. She knew Erik slipped in and out of shadows with the greatest of ease as only a Phantom could. "I…I…," she stammered weakly, wondering if perhaps that were the case.

Eustache took the paper in both his hands readying to rip it in pieces.

"No, Eustache! No!" Rosalie screamed, something snapping inside her. No more thought did she give to the possibility of any human apparition in the room. Instead, she fought. She struggled to upright herself as she grabbed at Eustache's hands. The two fought for the paper between them, a frantic battle ensuing. Eustache clearly had the advantage as he rested atop, was stronger and still clothed, but Rosalie did her best to stop him.

"Please, no! I need to know! I need to know what is in that letter! I love him! I cannot live without him!" She shrieked on the verge of mass hysteria.

The unabashed declaration left Eustache suspended motionless for several seconds. As if awakening from some terrible dream, he lifted himself from the Comtesse, turning away shame-faced as if suddenly realizing she was naked.

"Dress, Rosalie. Dress yourself. I – I am so – I have no words," he gasped frightfully as if struggling for air. "_Adieu, Cherie Madame. Je suis très, très désolé_." Pulling himself from her, he ran to the door, yanking it open. A small entourage of Rosalie's servants waited beyond the door, staring wide-eyed at the frenzied man who departed in haste.

Upon viewing the Comtesse's state, one of the servants screamed, urged for Miriette to go in and attend to her, then proceeded to slam the door shut. A flurry of commotion followed the action, footsteps and suppressed cries from beyond the panel.

"Madame…" Miriette gasped, finding a robe and covering her Mistress.

Rosalie barely felt the silk slipping through her arms and the tightening of the sash at her waist. Tears of shame, shock and relief slipped silently down her cheeks. Just when she supposed her well dried, a fresh supply of sentiment refilled her.

"Madame, are you all right? What can I get for you? Do you need medical attention? Did…" the young maid swallowed. "Did M. Rousseau hurt you?"

Closing her eyes, Rosalie could feel where his hands had coasted across her skin and his lips had freely tasted. To deny any sort of violation was a lie, and yet, she truly did love her friend and could not sully his reputation.

"No, no. Eustache did not hurt me. A moment's weakness, Miriette – for both of us."

"But I heard screaming."

Rosalie gave half a smile. "Yes. He found the letter I had foolishly asked for you to leave under my pillow. It upset him. Perhaps I have lost a friend."

"What can I do to help?" Miriette continued fussing with the robe, shamed that the servants had seen her Mistress in such an unbecoming manner. She would have to make sure the gossip certain to follow the display was kept to a minimum. Though as of late, all the servants did – nay all of Paris – was talk of the Comtesse. She made for great conversation with the stories surrounding her.

"I need a moment's time." Miriette curtsied and began to leave the room when Rosalie did think of a request. "Send the Vicomte to Eustache. I – I want to make sure he is safe." Again Miriette curtsied and hurried away to do her Mistress' bidding.

Rosalie bolted her door and collapsed onto her chair, too ashamed to sit on the bed, staring at the crumpled letter in her hand.

She felt weak, weaker than she ever had in her life. She wasn't sure her heart could take any more upsets. Her strength rapidly wasted. Closing her eyes and praying, she finally opened the letter.

_Dearest Rosalie,_

_You may well wonder at this long awaited response on my behalf. I have abandoned you to the vain existence of your former ways, satisfying myself with the notion that once returned to your lavish existence, I would be nothing more than an occasional nightmare to wake you up on your loneliest nights. I was a fool for believing so. It would not be my first time._

_How to account for my wrong behavior? After your lover – I am sorry if the word pains you, but that man is ardently desirous of you – _Rosalie blushed - _ shot at me and "rescued" you, I felt it best for all to believe me dead. You see, it has always been a design I have when pressed to the wall. Your enemies will only leave you alone when they believe themselves victor. With me dead, they would be satisfied. Many men died in the underground depths of my parlor. That is not something they will forgive with ease. It seemed easier for me to make my escape alone than with you in tow. Easier it was. Foolish, ever so._

_Rosalie, I love you with a true and honest passion. I write this not only as a man (I smile at the term, so long has it been that I have used it) violently in love, but as a man who has had time to think. I believe I can love freely and purely with you, because you love me in turn. I need not bribe or coerce those sentiments from your heart. On the contrary, you loved me first – scarce can I believe it._

_I have also heard whisperings of the evidence of our love. I know about the young life brewing inside. Even as I write it, I can scarcely believe it true. I feel a fool of twenty-one again; not that the age was a carefree one for me, but the idea that I will be a father, evokes a sentiment I can only describe as giddy!_

_We must meet again. I know I cannot just walk to your front door and expect to be ushered inside. If you are eager to begin a new life, send me word. You know where to leave it. I will then meet with you at the spot._

_My heart is and will always be yours, lovely Rosalie._

_Yours, etc._

_Erik_


	42. Part 35: A Face to Face

Part 35: A Face to Face

Eustache ambled through the streets of Paris without knowing where he treaded; shame, anger, resentment welled within him. What the devil had possessed him? Perhaps the devil _had_ possessed him. His love for Rosalie should only ever want to make him protect her not defile her, but defile her he had. He had not committed the act, but he had seen and touched – and he had no right to! None whatsoever.

He could never more call on her. He was not worthy of the term "friend".

Pausing by the Seine River, Eustache caught a glimpse of the moonlight obscured by thin clouds. He thought of his friend, almost like a brother, Philippe. His soul in heaven must have judged him terribly!

"You are a pathetic being M. Rousseau." It was an avowal stated in a moment of utter self-disgust. At that moment Eustache wished he could be anyone other than himself. He had issued the statement aloud expecting nothing more than perhaps a small echo of his mumblings. He started when he heard the voice by his ear.

"Indeed you are, but who am I to judge?"

Eustache spun, truly not expecting to see anyone by his elbow, but alas, the dark clad figure was there, down from his shoes up to his neck….

Dear God! His face!

"Do you like what you see?" Erik persisted. Before the terrified Eustache could respond, the towering Phantom leaned closer, speaking with ominous vitality. "I should rip you to shreds, you spineless vermin!" He sneered with utter contempt for the aristocrat, thrilling at the way his disfigurement granted him advantage. The rich man stood stone petrified to his spot. He could not move, let alone find his voice.

"You enjoy preying on helpless women?" His words dripped with contempt and yet Erik could not hide the smirk tugging his malformed lips. He knew from firsthand experience Rosalie was no helpless victim. Indeed, she was a fighter, more than a survivor.

His keen ability to move and mix within the shadows had allowed him to witness the attack. What had stayed his interference was Rosalie's fight and Eustache's sudden self-awareness. Erik still deliberated snapping his weak neck; his hands itched at the idea, but he reconsidered. Rosalie's true affection for this idiot would not allow her to look kindly at any violent act against him – even if it was in defense of her honor. Nevertheless, something else Erik excelled at was torture. Ah, if he only had this man in his Lair….

"You have nothing to say? Moments ago you prattled away with madcap ravings, things you perceived honeyed terms to your beloved."

Stunned silence impeded a response from the handsome gentleman. A deathly pallor crossed his features.

Erik's smile broadened and he began circling his immobile prey. "You and I are not so unlike. I, too, once loved a woman with vehemence and violence. A word of advice – women do not take too kindly to threats and ultimatums."

Eustache finally found the voice that had deserted him. "You offer me ad-"

"Perhaps you fail to realize the delicacy of your current situation, sir. I would advise you not to comment hastily. After all, your words might be your last."

All too well did Eustache understand. He cursed himself for his carelessness. He had foolishly walked to the remotest corner of the river's path, practically hidden under the bridge.

"You wanted to meet me back there in the room when you straddled over her like some demon lover seeking to possess a body. You realized you would _never_ have her heart. Compromise can be an ugly thing, reconciliation a bitter enemy." Erik ceased his predatory movement, positioning himself full right before the poor soul. "You have me now. Speak freely, even if not with words." Erik's tawny eyes blazed in the darkness. He knew between that and his putrid features, he made a frightful sight.

Eustache shook his head disbelieving the entirety of his situation. _This_ was what Rosalie loved, this _Thing!_ He spoke with violence, communicated threats, taunted, gloated…and that face! Those features!

But even in the bitterest anger and resentment, Eustache was not an insensible man. This…man...had an insight and clarity about the world the likes Eustache had never known. He spoke with a frankness and security that was terrifying, and with an authority from beyond this world. He knew people's secrets, as if he could divine hearts and minds. Where he could not freely enter and participate, he watched, and in watching, learned. He was wiser than any man Eustache ever met. Were they allies instead of enemies, if this man had dedicated his life to good, perhaps Eustache could have called him a mentor.

It amazed Eustache how swiftly he began to look beyond the exterior, began to reflect in his heart. For his heart looked equal to this man's face: black, sinister, broken, and yet he knew he was not beyond repair. There was a small measure of comfort in that.

"Why have you revealed yourself to me? You could have killed me without a moment's hesitation."

"You mean ended your life when your back was turned? Waited for you to have a moment's distraction? Oh, I've done those things before. I suppose I grow tired of killing idiots who stupidly believe they are beyond the reach of retribution."

"So you speak of yourself?"

The lightning eyes flashed before Eustache. A snarl revealed oddly perfect teeth. What a contradiction!

"Touche, my friend."

"I am not your friend. You have brought me nothing but heartache." Now Eustache spoke with abandon. It mattered not what he said if the thing meant to kill him anyway.

"You murdered a man who was closer to me than a brother, caused the only woman I ever loved months of suffering. Now you have turned her against me. Decide what you are going to do. If you love her do what is right by her. You've ruined her reputation and left her abandoned."

"Careful what you say. You speak from a perspective you know nothing of."

"I speak from _my_ perspective. It is the only one I have."

Erik stepped closer. He saw the fear in the man's eyes, but the man did not flinch. Erik realized they were contemporaries in age. A lifetime of experience separated them.

"I love the Comtesse," he shamelessly admitted. It felt freeing to do so.

"As do I." Eustache countered. "My ardent love is matched with an intense hatred for you."

For several minutes, the men stared at each other; not a single word passed between them. Eustache's heart raced at his daring, and palpitated with fear. He had never knowingly arrived at the threshold of life and death before. This man had nearly ended his life once, but he had stayed his hand…he had stayed his hand.

"What _do_ you want, Phantom? Tell me."

Erik hardly knew. He lived his life on his whims and fits of passion. "I hated as you did once. I hated the young Vicomte. It is a terrible thing to live with such hatred; almost as hurtful as losing the woman you love. The hate is worse. Hatred destroys. I used to abhor everyone and everything, M. Rousseau. It is a path I advice you not to take."

With those words, he spun on his heel, practically disappearing in the shadows from whence he came. Eustache stared, his eyes searching for the man. He could not see him, but he heard his voice.

"Move on with your life, and that means without Rosalie, for she is now a part of mine."


	43. Part 36: Final Arrangements

_**AN:** Happy New Year, everyone. Okay, okay. I am happy to report that after this chapter there is only ONE MORE LEFT, and for all the wait, it isn't even very long. Thank you for your extreme patience and committment. :)_

_This chapter has been edited. A huge and special, special thanks to Hot4Gerry, for pointing out a major boo-boo in the chapter (her review says it all.) She also deserves the all-time reader/reviewer award for remembering stories even when the author doesn't. Hugs to you, Gerry. 3_

__________________

Part 36: Final Arrangements

A dazed Eustache returned to his mansion at the finer side of Paris, though barely cognizant was he of nearing its threshold. The man had passed a night unlike any other, and the night was still young!

He did not even feel a semblance of surprise when a cloaked and hooded figure waited for him on the home's verandah.

"What do you want?" he inquired of the vigilante, not worried if it were a burglar, but how many burglars waited at one's front step? Certainly, the individual did not mean to inform him of their intent to rob.

Luckily, for Eustache he was not kept in mystery that much longer. The hood fell back, and Rosalie's lovely features came forward. There was doubt and sadness in her lineaments, but sweetness and forgiveness could be found behind her gaze.

Eustache could not take much more of this torture. He wholly convinced himself that the Lady would want nothing more to do with him. Her Phantom lover had just ordered him to stay the hell away from her, and now she appeared before him of her own volition? Perhaps she had a knife in her hands and was here to finish the job the Phantom failed to perform by the river.

The longtime friend gave the object of his adoration a long and weary look waiting for her to speak. He could not fathom what more she could possibly want or have to say to him.

She did not keep him in suspense much longer. With an uncertain glance, she spoke first.

"Eustache. I am in need of your help."

He looked at her uncertain and unsure, disbelieving everything and anything, his mind nothing more than a tumultuous state. "What?"

"I am not ready to discuss the particulars if your answer is no. I just need to know if you are willing to extend your hand, perhaps for the last time."

Eustache remained as stone. His heart had been tried more than he could bear, his nerves were frazzled. And yet…he listened.

"I can and I will. The question should be do you still have faith in me to do what is right?"

Her response not in words, a strangled cry escaped Rosalie's lips and she rushed to her friend's arms. "I would hate to lose faith in you!"

***

Rosalie revealed all. She shared the letter given to her by Erik, spoke of his intentions, and what Rosalie hoped would transpire when reunited with him. She did not give specifics for she had none to share. Everything that would take place now would be on whim and fancy.

"I will need a large sum of money from you, Eustache. I have taken some of my own personal notes, but will need more if we are to cross borders and leave France entirely."

"Leave France, Rosalie! Why?"

The lady's demeanor flushed as she lowered her lids. "Need you even ask the reason? He is a wanted man, pursued for the murders of many a multitude. Now they will hold him responsible for slaying a small militia of city guardsmen."

Eustache wisely refrained from commenting, but inwardly believed the punishment justified. However, accepting that logical had long fled them all and only illogicality remained, he nodded.

"Right, right. Forgive my lapse of memory. You are welcome to all I have in the safe."

"Eustache, you may take over everything. After Philippe's death…" Rosalie's cheeks turned crimson, but she never broke her gaze from her friend, "I left everything to you in the will. You are sole possessor of the house, of the land, of the livestock…everything is yours."

Eustache grabbed his friend's elbow, overpowered by the honor she had bestowed upon him. "I don't want your possessions…," he told himself not to finish the sentence even in his mind. She did not belong to him. She never had belonged to him. "What of…? The child? You do not want him to have some claim on his inheritance?"

"You have already informed me what his inheritance will be when his parentage is discovered. No. Erik and I must start fresh. I am perfectly aware that to commit to this path is to never look back. Eustache, I am reconciled to that fact. I know it seems ironic, but I did not have much here to begin with. Bah! I know you think I'm crazy."

Yes, yes he did, but no more than he was for her. He would jump any hurdles to have her as a part of his life. But it was not meant to be. She had chosen her path; the honorable decision was to let her go.

_That face!_

It was physical. Everyone's body decayed every day, little by little. Beauty was fleeting, looks temporal.

_That voice._

Revealed the fullness and richness of a soul unlike any other. The soul lived forever.

They moved to his house, into his study, where they sat down and spoke of many things: the past, the present, the future; business plans and idle memories. They kept each other company until Rosalie claimed it was time to go.

***

At the early hours of the morning, just before the breaking of the dawn a single passenger carriage pulled towards the front of Eustache's mansion. The owner and his fair guest shared whispered, brief words. A parcel was exchanged. The gentleman aided the lady to her seat.

"Rosalie, not that it matters, but would I have ever made you happy?"

The lovely ruby lips parted into the deepest and purest of smiles. She leaned over and whispered into his ear, "Eustache, you have made me the happiest of women at present." Leaning from the carriage window, she placed a tender hand on his cheek, and then a delicate parting kiss on his lips.

"Pray for us," was her farewell.

Eustache watched, a broken and sorrowful man, but in his heart knew he had done right in the eyes of God and man. He believed his dead friend, Philippe, would have approved.


	44. Part 37: The Reunion

_**AN:** The end **is** here! Thank you all for reading this story in its rewrite. I promise to keep it up this time. I know it was not without its controversies, (the infamous now not included scene), but many of you were so understanding to that fact and to my reservations for posting that here. All I can say is thank you over and over again. Merci._

_And now without further ado, I give you the final chapter of Retribution._

_Warm regards._

_~ E.A.

* * *

_

**Part 37: The Reunion**

The rising sun cast an illuminating glow off the back of the dew slated tombstones. Eerie as it was picturesque, Rosalie ignored it all, choosing instead to keep her gaze focused ahead of her, not stopping to consider how both the hem of her dress and the tips of her slippers were sloshy and slick thanks to the morning condensation.

Only Erik would ask to meet in a grave, and yet the Lady did not love him any less for the inconvenience.

She had packed light. One small bag slung over her shoulder, Eustache would be so good as to send her whatever they needed when they arrived...? Where would they arrive to?

It was madness; some would call it folly. None of it mattered.

Rosalie's steps suddenly slowed to a stop. Nothing could have detained her feverish pace before. Nothing should have, but the sight before her eyes did arrest step and breath if only for a moment.

She had arrived at Philippe's headstone. She stared at it so long, she practically bore holes through it with her vision. As if by some unseen force she moved towards it, running a gloved hand across the slick, thick granite. The water seeped through the silk of her material, and she felt the chill in her fingers.

Perhaps it was the momentary chill in her heart.

Not caring about her dress, she knelt before the massive stone. Her former husband's likeness had been etched into the carvings. An inscription laid below the picture. She read it aloud.

"'Death is the golden key, that opens the palace of eternity.'" She paused a moment. Her eyes watering at what she would do next. "Philippe, I have been untrue, though you already knew that." Something of a smirk crossed her features. "Did we really love each other? Maybe at some point...

"I've found love, Philippe. The man who sent you to your early destiny. What does God think of that? What does The Almighty have in store for me? Is it a sin to love the unloved? I fear that our love for one another will only bring good things to his life. It already has to mine."

The soft swarthy tunes of a melody reached the Comtesse's ears. She stilled, listening as it grew louder. The chords of a violin, the vibrato portions played to a haunting perfection.

"Erik," she mumbled. "You would have me meet you just before dawn in a remote corner only so you could give away our position with your bold music?" Her heart thrilled at the nearness of him. It felt like an eternity since they had last been together.

The dark figure emerged before her, popping from behind the stone. "Lovely Lady," he whispered, a hint of teasing in the voice that was equally as melodic as the tunes played forehand, "are you issuing a prayer or a confession?"

"Neither," she replied, her lips parting into the warmest of smiles. "I have only been conversing with the man who brought me to you. It was God's will."

Erik moved from behind the stone assuming a seat beside her on the humid earth. "I am still not certain what people mean by that. God's will seems a tricky thing." He wrapped an arm about her.

Rosalie laughed immediately nestling herself to him. "Oh, how I've missed you! Would you lift that mask so I might greet you appropriately?"

"You are a scandalous woman indeed! Not in front of your husband."

Rosalie shook her head, a bittersweet laugh escaping her throat. "No more. Not for a long time since. Death has separated us. I am not bound to him, not by the law nor by God. But to show you that I am not so irreverent as you imply..." She bowed her head and this time did pray.

"Dear Father, I thank you for your Sovereign guidance and tender mercies. I ask now Lord that you go with us, guide Erik and myself to where you lead, and though it may not be a land of milk and honey, it will be the sweetest Eden for us. Go before us, Lord. I pray that you would keep us safe. Amen."

She then slipped her glove into a pocket in her dress and extracted her wedding band. Digging with her finger, she created a small hole into the earth, dropping the expensive ring below, quickly patting it with dirt.

"Rosalie _Lamarliere_, that ring will soon be scooped up by a gypsy or grave robber. You'd have done better to give it to a fowl of the air."

"It is a symbol that I am free. Certainly you would recognize that."

"I could not. Symbols mean precious little when I _know_ that _I_ am free. You have made that possible. Let us depart."

"Where to?" Rosalie asked with a breath as Erik helped her to her feet.

"To wherever we are led." He lifted his mask and pressed his lips to hers.

Rosalie could ask for nothing more.

* * *

* Milton


End file.
